


Wade Will F*** Shit Up For You

by Quakey (Quak3y)



Series: Author Favorites [4]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body image problems, Bottom Nathan Summers (sometimes), Daddy Kink meaning I love guys being good dads, Foul Language (because neither Wade nor Nate nor I can keep our language clean), Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fast-Burn, Shower Sex, Spanking, TW: discussions of mental health, TW: mentions of possible past child abuse, but also some (very tame) daddy kink, mild body horror (because amputated limb and damaged eyes and scars because it's Cablepool)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/pseuds/Quakey
Summary: Nate admits to himself he shouldn’t have answered the Craigslist ad. Yet here he is, trying to hire a guy who offers to fuck shit up professionally for money and finding out he’s getting more than he bargained for.(No-powers AU movie!verse cablepool and mindless self indulgence on the author's part.)
Relationships: Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson
Series: Author Favorites [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895803
Comments: 181
Kudos: 218





	1. Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to mutantapologist on Tumblr! This fic is based on her prompt, and the image I use in the first chapter is her edit. This fic would not exist if not for her idea.
> 
> <https://mutantapologist.tumblr.com/post/184663630453/cablepool-au-idea>
> 
> This fic is finished, I just need to upload it. My goal is to post one chapter a day because final editing and formatting is a time-consuming thing.
> 
> Not quite sure if this will work, but here's a link to my fic playlist: <https://open.spotify.com/playlist/23HSPeeYXtuBBs9haimcVd?si=jIw2XCvnTSihokVg1rjICg>
> 
> Please for the love of god and fanfic writers everywhere leave a comment or a kudo. <3

The thing about people, Nate thinks to himself as he watches the collection of humanity moving east and west past the concrete bench, was that you never knew what to expect. Look at every jerk he met in the service compared to the good, decent guys he's still buddies with. Look at his clients, coming to him day after day, all of them wanting what they believe is their due, but half of them with utterly self-serving, garbage reasons for why they are due it. Hell, look at him, supposedly riding the upper class of society and look at what he’s here for. Sometimes you expect people to be the best and they’re the worst. But sometimes you expect the worst and they turn out to be the best.

There’s no telling which kind of person he’s arranged a meeting with. Well. No telling what motivates him, what his moral character is. Obviously the mystery man is going to be fairly violent and profane and flippant--that came through loud and clear in text.

He resists the urge to unlock his phone and glance through the ad and the messages they’ve exchanged. He knows what they say. The ad his coworkers had passed around the office, laughing and giggling, was clear in intent and utterly memorable. He’d been the only one who’d looked at it thoughtfully and not just as a joke and saved the link.

For a whole day he’d told himself he wasn’t going to answer it, but then he admitted to himself that he was still thinking about it, that temptation was there. And then a plan began to form…

And hence there were the messages they'd exchanged.

_Hello, Wade. I saw your Craigslist ad. I would be interested in your services. Can we meet somewhere?_

_Tell me what you want and I’ll give you a price. Text call or email_

_I don’t intend to have this discussion over a medium that can be recorded. Can you meet at Bellevue’s Downtown Park tomorrow morning (Saturday)? I’ll be wearing a leather jacket and have a blue duffle bag with me. Look on the benches at the north of the park._

_Sure but thatll cost extra. 10am. I’ll wear red_

There had been nothing more.

Looking at the texts again is a pointless waste of time, an attempt to soothe anxious nerves. The content is already known, looking at it won’t change it. He takes a calming breath instead, straightens a little and concentrates on relaxing his shoulders.

He watches the people crossing both ways in front of him. Panting joggers and strolling couples, parents pushing strollers and toddlers pointing at the ducks in the shallow, artificial canal that rings the center of the park. Children running toward the playground. Dog walkers clutching a leash in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. All ages, all colors, all creeds. What will this ‘Wade’ look like, he wonders. Possibly younger, given the violent, likely taxing nature of his so-called profession. His ethnicity could be anything.

This is probably a mistake.

Hope is going to murder him if she figures it out. _When_ she figures it out. He gives his daughter full credit for being both intelligent and observant--it won’t take much for her to put things together.

Well, maybe she won’t murder him. But he bets there’s some psychological torture involved in the fallout.

A very tall, broad, man approaches, tattoos winding their way down his forearms from a red t-shirt, phone to his ear. Nate watches him carefully, wondering if this is ‘Wade’, but the man passes by without the smallest glance, snatches of animated conversation sounding like no more than normal gossip with a friend.

He shifts on the flat slab of the bench. Concrete is cold in the early spring, but at least there has been no rain in the past 24 hours, no puddles of rain water to brush aside before sitting, and the thin sunshine brings a hint of warmth. His duffle bag is snug against his hip and the rest of the bench stretches to his right, a silent invitation to _someone_ , he just doesn’t know who.

He pulls out his phone, glances at his screen, and then tucks it in his pocket. 10:05. The man is late.

There is a slight crunch of gravel to his left, on his bad side. Footsteps, light and steady. He turns his head slightly, watches a man approaching. Tall, although slouching, hands plunged into the pockets of a red pullover hoodie, hood pulled forward so that between it and the downward tilt of the man’s head, he can’t see much of his features, but what he does see has a strange pattern to it, something not quite right about the play of light on skin. The hoodie obscures his frame, baggy and shapeless, but the black sweat pants below it are more closely fitted, giving an impression of long, muscular legs. On his feet are sneakers, scuffed and well-worn.

There’s something about the figure. A kind of skulking caution, like he’s holding himself apart even while being part of the thin crowd, suffering from a self-imposed _otherness_.

Something tells Nate this is ‘Wade,’ and when the figure smoothly settles on the far end of the bench, his suspicion is confirmed. The man keeps his hood forward, so all he can see is the tip of a nose and a chin, but both are mottled darker and lighter.

Nate is still considering him when the other speaks.

“I’m Wade. Problems solved or caused at reasonable rates. And you are…?”

“Nathan Summers.”

“Okay, we’ll assume that’s not a fake name. What’d ya need?”

It’s an … interesting voice. Not particularly high or bass, but gravelly and quick. Sharp and with a hint of malice, like a knife held ready to attack.

 _I need to hire you to be a bastard to someone who doesn’t deserve it._ “I need you to approach a young lady and her boyfriend and … make some trouble.”

“Totally doable,” the man says pleasantly. “Jealous Daddy type? Or Dad doesn’t like who his daughter’s dating? I can punch him for you if that’s what you want.”

That spikes unease. “No, no, that’s not it. I need you to approach _her_. Be rude. I don’t know, use insults, be crude, try to grab her, whatever makes sense. You aren’t actually trying to hurt her. I just want you to annoy her enough that he steps in between you and tries to protect her.”

“What? Why?” The man turns his head toward Nate, tone clearly puzzled, and Nate gets his first good look at the other’s face. He can’t help the involuntary, small wince of sympathy, because the other man has more scars than he does, and that’s saying something. The stranger’s face is a mass of what looks like burns, shiny and blotchy with scar tissue, the edges of nose and ears uneven like chipped, mottled pottery.

The other’s eyes narrow at the flinch. Nate files away the mental note that they’re brown, and their expression is hard.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what I look like. Makes people extra freaked out when I crash their events, so count it as a selling point for my services.”

American culture still isn’t used to men and women who have been in battle, even though their country has been at war for 19 years. He gets his own share of looks from those who are clearly uncomfortable with his own, modest-by-comparison scars--he expects this other guy has it on an entirely worse level.

“No, I didn’t mean-- I was just sympathizing.” Nate waves a hand vaguely at his own face. “That looks like one hell of a thing happened to you.”

The other looks momentarily surprised, then his eyes flick down, linger for a second on Nate’s upper torso, then back to his face. There’s something there for a second, something a little less angry, and then his features smooth to unreadable. “Yeah, sure,” he says brusquely. “One hell of a thing. Why do you want me to annoy _her_ but get _him_ between us?”

“Because he’s too soft and too old-fashioned,” Nate replies instantly. “She could take you out in a fair fight, and he ought to know it, but he’s constantly protecting her. Coddling her. Acting like she’s a delicate little thing he gets to sweep away like some romantic hero. Like he wants her to marry him and wear dresses and have babies and not be her own person. I’m sick of it.” He realizes he’s practically spitting out the words, curt and angry. Emil is getting to him, maybe more than he’d realized given that he’s trying to hire a Craigslist punk to possibly punch him in the face by proxy.

“So you want me to tell her how good her boobs look and that she ought to ditch her wimp of a boyfriend and come back to my place?”

Nate sees the world through red for a moment, even though he knows the man is just trying to understand his request, but the brief flash of imagination, this stranger hassling Hope that way … he wants to punch him. _Hard._

“This is a bad idea,” he says curtly, heaving to his feet and looping the duffle bag strap over his good shoulder. “Thank you for your time, but never mind.” He whirls and strides away, intending to leave the man behind. This is a bad idea, he just needs to try again to talk to Hope _calmly_ and _sanely_ and then trust her to make up her own mind.

“Hey, hold on, wait!” There’s scrambling sounds behind him, the hasty crunch of small gravel and then the man is striding up next to him. “Hold on! One, you haven’t paid me for my time this morning. Gas ain’t cheap around here.”

“Not my problem,” Nate growls

“Two, sorry if you’re her Dad or her Daddy, I guess that boobs comment was a bit much.” Unhelpfully, he makes double-handed squeezing motions in front of himself while saying it. The backs of his hands are also covered in shiny scar tissue.

Nate glares. “What the hell do you know about it?” he growls.

“I mean, I’ve got a daughter too?” The man shrugs in his hoodie, a ripple of shapeless cotton. “She doesn’t even have boobs yet, but if someone talked about them I’d probably want to punch them for free. I ought to have known that was too much. Plus, did I mention you still owe me for gas and time?”

Nate stops abruptly and turns toward the other. To his immense irritation, Wade is a number of inches taller, so he has to tilt his head slightly upward to glare up at him. Wade just grins down, and Nate has the irrational suspicion that Wade is enjoying the height difference.

“Is Wade your real name?”

“As real as my scars,” the other says cheerfully. “I’d say you should make your checks payable to Wade W. Wilson, but I only accept cash. Fifty for today, nine hundred fifty for menacing a nice girl and her boyfriend, exact date of the menacing tee bee dee. Do you want video proof? It’s included free if you want it. If you want me to take a punch from him, that’s extra. And I want all the money up front.”

“You don’t have to take a punch from him, although you might accidentally take one from her. No, no video. And how do you expect me to pay that much for a couple minutes of business?”

“I have to travel wherever the event happens, spend time figuring out the layout of the area, and figure out how to get away if they call the cops. Plus having the balls to pull off the job at all. There’s a lot of finesse and dedication the customer never sees and needs to learn to ap-pre-ci-ate,” Wade enunciates with an obnoxious grin.

“Seven hundred fifty total, and only half up front,” Nate counters. “And I want to meet your daughter.”

The grin instantly disappears, the other’s eyes losing the amused twinkle of seconds ago and going hard. “No, what the hell?”

“I want to meet your daughter, see if you’re telling the truth that she exists. See what kind of a man I’m doing business with.”

“I said no,” Wade snaps, eyes narrowing. Nate watches his posture shift, lower and broader, hands coming out of his pockets again, slightly open and ready. This guy, whoever he is, looks ready and willing to fight. “What the fuck? She’s _eight_ , you creep.”

“Glad you think so,” Nate says agreeably. “I wouldn’t consider doing business with someone who’s willing to use a child as leverage to get a job. Consider the request canceled.”

“What?” Brown eyes blink in confusion, then narrow again. “Wait … _what? You were testing me?_ ”

“Yes and I’m not apologizing.” Nate fights the urge to laugh at the outraged look on the other’s face. “I only just met you, I don’t have to play nice. Consider it payback for the breasts comment.”

Wade warily straightens, posture relaxing again, although not quite as far as it had been.

“Aaaaw, Natey-poo, don’t be mean,” he coos. “It hurts me when you hurt my feelings. Here I thought I felt a connection, something magical between us.”

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

“Oh so many things,” Wade says with a tight smile. “And the price just went up to twelve hundred because of your shitty little stunt.”

“Why should I pay more just because of your hurt feelings?”

“My feelings are very delicate. If I’m not in the right mood, I just won’t be able to perform.”

Nate resists the urge to make a dirty joke. “Eleven hundred twenty, half up front.”

“Deal,” Wade says cheerfully, although perhaps less cheerfully than he would have a minute ago, sticking out his hand to shake. Nate curses internally, because such an easy acquiescence means he _definitely_ fucked up the haggling.

He sighs, and puts his hand in Wade’s. The skin against his is warm and dry, the grip sure as Wade shakes and releases.

“I’m going to need pictures, descriptions, locations,” Wade says matter of factly. “Names. Starting with yours. Seriously, is Nathan Summers your real name? I want to be able to go to the cops if you turn out to be a real pedophile.”

Nate sighs. “I’m not a pedophile.”

“All pedophiles say they’re not pedophiles,” Wade replies confidently, but his grin is such a shit-eating and edgy thing that Nate is pretty sure he’s being baited, that it’s not a serious accusation.

“Jesus. I _will_ kick your ass,” he grumbles in exasperation.

“Says the one-legged man in the ass-kicking competition,” Wade replies glibly. “Oh wait, sorry, I meant the one-armed man in the punching contest.”

It startles a bark of laughter out of Nate. There are hardly any people who come straight out and _mention_ an empty sleeve or a prosthetic hand on a first meeting. Fewer still who will make a joke about it.

He has to admit … it’s kind of refreshing.

Definitely increases his suspicion that this Wade is a somewhat recent vet too and, due to the unfortunate circumstances that often come with being a vet, used to actually interacting with people missing some of their body parts.

“One arm or two, I can still beat you in a fight,” he declares.

Eyebrows raise. “Hold on there, old man. You might be in reasonable shape and everything, but I’m good and you’re … like … handicapped or something.”

“Can still kick your ass.” He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s egging the other man on, except that it’s making him want to outright laugh watching Wade’s face go through a series of incredulous and outraged expressions. “I was heading to the gym after this.” He pats the duffle bag at his side. “Come with me, we can see who beats whose ass the worst.”

Wade blinks. Blinks again.

“....... Are you hitting on me?”

Well. He hadn’t been. But that’s an interesting idea. He gives the frame in front of him a thoughtful once over. Good build. Not out of the question.

“Do people usually threaten to beat you up when they’re attracted to you?”

“Well, sometimes, but I don’t think of my love life as _normal_ and, what the hell, are you _serious_?”

“Completely. Notice I still haven’t paid you? Come show me if you’ve got real moves and if I like what I see, then I’ll shell out cash. Consider it a final hiring interview.”

Nate doesn’t usually do things like this. Sure, he works off his instincts with people he’s just met, often takes a chance on forging a connection, sometimes to get something he wants, sometimes to get someone he wants. He’s also known to pull crazy stunts, but they’re usually confined to the courtroom. He takes chances, works on hunches based on intuition about the witnesses that he can’t always explain, but which pay off a staggering percentage of the time. But that’s within a structure, approved of, something he gets paid _handsomely_ for. This … is something else.

Sure, he has a good cover story. He really does want to see this guy’s moves. Given the tiny glimpses he’s had of the way the other holds himself when feeling threatened, he’s hoping the guy is actually decent, maybe even good. It would keep him from getting leveled by Hope. And it would be a nice distraction, something different to do with himself for his Saturday morning workout.

He tells himself it’s a purely professional interest, but he also knows he’s lying to himself.

Whatever the reason, he turns and starts for the park entrance again, smiling thinly as the other man curses and then hastens to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emil is that kid from Cable volume 2, the one in the future city who helps Hope while she's on the run and Nate skips over her in the timestream. He's a heterosexual caricature and I dislike him immensely. ;P
> 
> I had been trying to use the prompt for at least a year using comics!cablepool, but it finally gelled when I visualized reverse-size-kink movie!Nate in real life AU where people have to deal with their trauma in a much more realistic way than in comics, where Nate and Wade are good dads doing their best, and where emotionally honest conversations are some of the hottest porn there is (at least to me).
> 
> I fully admit this fic is kind of dumb and sappy and a glorified romance novelette, and there’s a lot of what probably won’t look like catharsis to an outside eye but is, and I mock myself for not having a very strong plot arc beyond the romance one, but you know what? I spent four months and counting on this incredibly self-indulgent thing, I’m proud of finally finishing a 40,000+ word piece, every piece I write makes me more skillful and lets me try new things (like using a real-world setting and Wade’s text boxes!), and someone else will probably like it too (especially since it has the most E-rated scenes of anything I’ve ever written xD), so I’m publishing it!


	2. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we start entering rated-E territory.

Wade has no idea what he’s doing. Which, honestly, is a pretty common feeling, but it’s usually based on confusing or stupid things _he_ does, not irrational things someone else is doing. It ought to be internally generated instead of gifted upon him by the hot daddy type who’s threatening to beat him up.

His dick is receiving very mixed messages here.

As he catches up with this guy yet again, he’s seriously questioning what in the world is going on. And why he’s doing this. And what is up with a dude over forty who sports that kind of an undercut. Because this guy’s hair is shot through with more silver than dark and he still has it trimmed long on the top and nonexistent on the sides and back. And also, is this guy actually hitting on him a little or is that just his overactive imagination?

 _You mean hallucinations and delusions_ , an inner thought whispers unhelpfully

Yeah, it must just be wishful thinking.

_**Definitely that. He’s hot, if you like shorter, older, and grizzled.** _

Yeah, if this Nathan guy isn’t Wade’s usual hookup it’s not because he’s unwilling, but because he doesn’t usually get the chance. He’s _totally_ into stacked, good looking older dudes, but they aren’t usually into him. Anyone who’s reasonably well off and well-adjusted usually takes one look at Wade and hurriedly walks the other direction. This guy’s dressed in clothes that are crisp and new, his shoes look like they’re real leather, and his dark brown jacket definitely is. He carries himself confidently, like he _belongs_ here in the heart of downtown instead of Wade who feels vaguely conspicuous in his thrift store sweats and old sneakers that are a month or two away from falling apart.

Second, there’s the fact that Nathan isn’t behaving like his usual clients. He's not the usual mix of angry or petty or vindictive that Wade typically sees. No trying to right a wrong against himself or punish someone. This angle where he's trying to set his kid up to notice something herself? It's a bit over-thought for Wade's taste, a little too subtle in terms of manipulation, but he likes that the guy isn't just yelling at his kid, telling her what to do. God knows Wade had enough or that growing up--good for Nathan for not making that kind of bullshit move.

Also, he's pretty unusual _looking_. And yeah, Wade’s glancing at the scars when he thinks this, because the lines on the right side of his hopefully-a-client's face that bisect eyebrow and then curve down his cheek, a distorted, healed furrow of skin, aren't the sort of thing you see every day. Not that Wade's judging, he probably has more scar tissue on the back of one hand than this Nathan guy has on his entire face. Still, he’s kind of surprised the guy still has an eye given those raking scars.

And, well, there’s the whole arm thing. The left sleeve of Nathan's leather jacket is too loose, obviously empty to someone who knows what to look for. The end of the sleeve is tucked, or maybe clipped, into the jacket pocket, so a casual observer might think Nathan just had a hand in his pocket, but Wade isn’t fooled. He thinks Nathan might still have part of his upper arm, based on how his shoulders move, the way the jacket is filled out there, but it’s only a guess.

So while this guy carries himself like he's reasonably well-off, he's also scarred-up like some army grunt who saw the wrong kind of action somewhere that soldiers get sent to die. God knows Wade knows enough about that too. Come to think of it, there's a certain barking gruffness to Nathan's voice that reminds Wade of the service.

All these thoughts flashing through his head keep him so occupied, along with stealing glances to the side, that he actually keeps his mouth shut as Nathan strides through several blocks of downtown, heading east and north from the park.

_Surprised you have that kind of self control._

“Piss off,” he mutters under his breath. He can keep quiet on a job when he needs to, and that’s what this is so far, no matter how curious the customer: just another job. Plus, he reminds himself, he’s still pissed at this guy for scaring him about Ellie. He’d be smarter not to trust him.

When this Nathan Summers guy strides right through the front entrance of Bellevue Towers, one of the very fancy, very tall, relatively new condo highrises rising like pillars of angled glass and chrome above downtown, he starts to feel kind of pissed off on top of confused and off-kilter. Some of the people coming and going through the residential lobby are wearing coats and carrying purses that probably cost as much as what he’s trying to charge this guy. There are actual plants, actual trees inside as decoration, some sort of glittery sculpture hanging from the ceiling. He should definitely have asked for more cash for this job.

His customer walks into the first elevator that opens, one-handed fishes a wallet out of his coat pocket, and nonchalantly presses it against the elevator card reader before choosing a floor. It’s a short trip, only a couple seconds, and then they step out into what is apparently the resident gym, if the two-story wall of lockers and rows of treadmills and stationary bikes and elliptical trainers facing a magnificent view of the building across the street are any indication. There are a couple women and men in the latest skin-tight workout gear sweating away to the whir of equipment, headphones or earbuds on or in, swigging from water bottles and generally paying them no attention. There’s good lighting and TV screens on every workout machine, a weights area off to the right, and two doors on the left next to large floor-to-ceiling glass windows that give a clear view of the workout rooms they lead to. A sign points the way to womens and mens locker rooms. There’s a cart with a stack of intensely white, fluffy-looking towels next to a bin labeled very clearly for dirty towels only, thank you, the management and a drinking fountain and one of those water bottling filling stations. Everything is clean and new, contentedly pleased with its quality and good taste.

“Nice building,” Wade says sarcastically. “Very ostentatious, I like it.”

The older guy snorts. “Believe it or not, I agree,” he says, heading straight towards one of the workout rooms. He holds the door open. “Wait in here, I’m going to change.”

“Don’t ditch me,” Wade grumbles as he steps past his customer. “If you stand me up, I’m going to piss in the potted plants downstairs on my way out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Looking forward to shoving that handsome face into the mats,” Nathan says and lets the door swing closed between them.

Wade stares at the closed door for the time it takes to process that statement, then process it again because the answer he’s coming too is far too bizarre to be real.

“Okay, what the fuck!!” he blurts out to the empty room.

_He’s hitting on you._

“He is not hitting on me!”

_Denial._

“Shut up, no one hits on this,” he mutters, turning to look around him. Turns out the room is about as plain and boring as a square room with nothing in it except the padded floor mats can be. There’s a poster on the wall talking about muscle groups and how best to strengthen each one.

It’s a very boring couple of minutes of reading about how to make his glutes deliciously defined until the guy opens the door and steps back in. Wade blinks.

Gone is the leather jacket and the slacks and the tidy shirt. Instead his customer is wearing sweatpants and a tank top with bare feet, and the man is absolutely _ripped_. His shoulders and his arm bulge with muscles and are accented by prominent veins, and between where the tanktop dips low under his armpits and where it clings tight to flesh underneath, it’s obvious his torso is ridiculously chiseled. There’s gotta be a pretty defined six-pack there, plus all the ridiculous little bulges and ripples of each muscle group doing its damnedest to scream _look at me, I’m so strong!!_

The complete absence of a left arm from the mid bicep down would be more of a shock if Wade hadn’t already expected it. The metal pin protruding from the end of the arm is mildly curious; Wade hadn’t seen anything like it in the military hospitals, but he guesses there’s probably only so much he was cognizant enough to notice at the time.

And it really doesn’t matter whether Nathan is missing an arm or not--he’s still a treat for the eyes.

Wade stares for a couple of seconds as Nathan strolls along the perimeter of the room. He involuntarily licks his lips.

“Wow, how many steroids do you take? Your muscles have muscles.”

“It’s all natural,” Nathan says curtly with a tight-lipped smile as he continues his stroll in a slow circle around Wade. It feels uncomfortably like being stalked by a big cat. Maybe a lion. Maybe a jaguar. Something compact and heavily muscled. “You ready?”

“Oh. Shit. Wait.” Wade hurriedly tugs his hoodie over his head. Then he realizes the t-shirt he’s wearing under the hoodie definitely isn’t hiding enough skin. He hesitates as he scopes out Nathan’s face, but the other man never changes expression, all calculation and menacing focus, so he goes ahead and kicks off his shoes toward the edge of the room, tosses the hoodie after them. “Any rules here?”

“Pull your punches. I don’t want to go to work next week with a black eye. I’ll pull mine too. We’ll both know we could have landed it harder than we did. Try to take me down to the mat or put me in a hold I can’t break.”

“Okaaaaay,” Wade says doubtfully, cracking his knuckles and shaking out his arms, trying to ignore the fact that he can see his scars all over this arms and that means Nate can too. “Your funeral, grandpa.”

Nathan snorts. “I’m not that old,” he says, and stops circling.

Wade has his fists up and at the ready, slipping instantly into a different mindset, where throwing a punch is as ingrained in muscle memory and reflex as pulling on pants and brushing his teeth. Little thought, no need to consciously react. Where there’s only strike and block and take the other guy down.

He notices that this Nathan guy is long in the torso, shorter in the legs and arm. His reach isn't going to be great. Wade grins cockily as he contemplates being able to land a punch or kick without the other being able to touch him. This should be easy.

Nathan has his upper body turned slightly, angling his one good arm toward Wade, palm open slightly above the level of his face.

He's ridiculously open, Wade thinks, and he's already swinging as the thought forms.

And in a single, smooth move, Nathan smacks the incoming punch aside, palm against forearm, stepping _inside_ Wade's reach, and there's something lightning fast that leaves his arm pinned between this guy's torso and elbow.

Shortie grins up, right into his face, too many teeth and mean amusement. Then in a flash he releases the hold and is back outside Wade’s reach again.

Wade blinks. Blinks again.

“Whose funeral?” the older guy taunts.

Wade shakes his head like a dog coming out of the water. Then settles into a fighting stance a second time, hands raised, eyes narrowed and calculating.

“Try that again, old man.”

Nathan shrugs. “Okay.”

This time Wade feints with his left and swings with his right. His hopeful expectation is to connect with something, feel it in his knuckles and ripple up his arm, stop that smirk. But the older guy is suddenly inside his swing _again_ , and there’s a hand firm around his feinting wrist, a forearm deflecting his punch, and then an elbow hovering a hair’s breadth from his nose.

Wade shakes him off with a curse, and the other guy lets him, practically bouncing as he backs out of reach, looking disgustingly pleased with himself.

“Maximum effort,” Wade hisses and comes in with fists and legs flying.

No slow moves, no testing the other guy this time. It’s a high-speed dance, pirouette and twirl, assuming both dancers are trying to land a thudding, solid hit on their partners. Nate tries that business with grabbing with his hand while blocking with his forearm again, and Wade flings his weight into it, rolling out of the hold and coming up swinging. The other guy is smart enough to dodge, sliding back and to the side. Wade tries following him with a roundhouse kick, and realizes it’s a bad idea about the same moment he hits the mats. He tries to roll, use his momentum to get back to his feet, but Shortie is on him before he can do it.

The way Nathan is muscled, it’s like wrestling an anaconda, and within seconds Wade finds himself pinned face-down on the mats, arm around his neck rapidly cutting off his ability to breath no matter how much he’s scrabbling at it with his fingers.

_**God, wrestling is so homoerotic.** _

_I know. Two muscular guys, rolling around on the floor. I bet this guy’s dick is so close to--_

Wade resolutely shuts down that train of thought.

“Told you I wanted to shove that handsome face into the mats,” Nathan chuckles behind his ear.

“God, you suck,” he wheezes.

“You wish.”

Wade’s brain stalls out like an engine jammed into gear too fast, all available neurons trying to process whether he’d heard that right, and furthermore, whether this guy meant it the way Wade hopes he meant it, and furthermore still, how he’s going to keep thinking about it when things are going a little swimmy in his vision from lack of oxygen.

He slaps the floor several times in defeat.

The weight disappears immediately and Wade rolls onto his back, looking up at the other man with extremely conflicted emotions of annoyance and interest.

“Exactly how many black belts do you have?”

“Three, plus military training,” the guy says, with a shit-eating grin. “You?”

“Two,” Wade grumbles, sitting up cross legged and continuing to half glare at, half ogle his sparring partner. “Plus training.”

“You’re not bad,” Nate says, and he holds out an offered hand up.

Wade lets his hand close on the other guy’s forearm, warm skin to skin for the second time today, fingers wrapping firmly around the side of the appendage, and then he’s throwing a leg over the outstretched single arm, using every ounce of leverage he’s got to flip Nathan down to the floor, pin that damn limb between his thighs. It’s a squirming, writhing trajectory from standing to floor and rolling over and over several times, until they come to a stop. Wade has both legs wrapped around Nathan’s arm and his upper body pinning Nathan’s torso to the floor, forearm digging into the older man’s throat.

(He tries not to think about all that muscle rubbing against his bare arms. The scratch of stubble on his arm. His dick squished against the guy’s arm through a couple layers of cloth. Really just best not to go there, mentally.)

_If no one says anything, that’s no homo, amiright?_

The light brown eyes staring straight back at him are wide. Wade squints, peering closer as Nathan slaps the mat a couple times. He releases and rolls away as the other guys takes a deep breath, coughs, sits up.

“I swear I didn’t knock you down that hard,” Wade says worriedly. “Your eyes, your pupils, they’re dilating differently, what the heck, you’ve got a concussion.”

“Haven’t got a concussion,” Nathan says brusquely, climbing to his feet.

“But--” Wade starts, getting up and coming after Nate, getting right down in his face to stare. He squints, frowning. Shakes his head. “My mistake,” he mutters in confusion.

The other guy snorts.

“Well, you’re not bad,” he says as he straightens his shirt, dusts himself off like they’d been rolling on the ground instead of a squeaky clean exercise room.

“Of course I’m not bad. I’m the best.”

“Not quite. But you’re not bad. Come on, follow me,” he says, turning and exiting the room. Wade slips on his shoes and grabs his hoodie and follows, too confused at this point by customer turned sexy-customer turned ultra-sexy-customer-who-can-almost-kick-his-ass to protest.

But not enough to keep quiet.

“Where are we going now? Do I need to beat you on the treadmills too for you to hire me? Best man on the ellipticals wins?”

The guy snorts but doesn’t turn. “You didn’t beat me,” he calls back.

“Says the guy who didn’t win the last round.”

His probably-employer holds the locker room door open for him. “And did win all the other rounds.”

“Best one out of four. I win,” Wade insists as he enters the room. Row of lockers and a bench on the left, three shower stalls with curtains on the right. Further down there’s a doorway into what looks like a bathroom area with sinks and a couple toilet stalls.

“Best three out of four. _I_ win. _You_ lose,” the other guy says mildly.

“I had staying power. I came from behind.”

Nathan snorts at that, half smothered and yet loud, like he really doesn’t want to be amused but he just can’t help himself. “I certainly hope that’ll be true. God, you make it so easy.”

“What?” Wade says stupidly.

_I don’t get it._

_**You’re both idiots.** _

Nathan strides over to a locker, spins the combo on it for a few seconds, then pops it open. The same blue duffle bag comes out of the locker and thuds onto the bench. He unzips it, pulls out his leather wallet, and pops it open. Then he wedges it between his stump and side, so he can use his hand to dig through it and come up with a wad of cash.

The wallet gets tossed down on the bag as he spreads the bills in his hand, which look like mostly fifties from where Wade’s standing. God. A body like that. Moves like that. And well-off enough to live here and carry wads of cash like it’s nothing.

 _ **He is so out of your league**_ , comes an unhelpful thought.

Before that idea can fully take root, morose and unhelpful, Nate extends the bills. Wade grabs them, quickly counts, then looks up sharply.

“Five hundred eighteen is what I have on me right now. Close enough?”

“Absolutely not!” Wade snaps, shaking the wad of cash at him for emphasis. “I am a _professional_! Read the ad again! I fuck shit up _professionally_ , and you, sir, are going against the terms of our agreement! You owe me whatever the difference is between this and five hundred sixty dollars!”

_**Forty-two dollars.** _

“Yeah, forty-two dollars!”

Nathan shrugs, then catches the bottom of his shirt in one hand, and strips it up and over his head, drops it on the bench, exposing every inch of long, glorious torso. Wade’s eyes go straight to the two dark circles and pink buds of nipples. He realizes his mouth is hanging open.

_He handed you a couple ones, right? Can we shove them in his waistband?_

_**Seconded.** _

“Shut up,” he mutters weakly.

The guy gives him a slightly baffled look, but isn't deterred.

“I understand you’re a professional, but I’m asking you to let it slide right now. I’m not trying to stiff you out of the cash--”

_That’s not the kind of stiff we have a problem with right now._

“--I’m just asking for a little flexibility--”

_**I have so many ideas about flexibility.** _

“--on timing of payment.”

Nathan has been sauntering closer while he says this. Wade finally manages to snap his jaw shut. Clears his throat.

“Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me!”

The other man tilts his head, flicks his eyes down significantly for a second.

“Looks like they’re working just fine,” he says with a smirk.

“God, you suck so much,” Wade breaths.

“Not on a first date,” the guy quips, and this time there’s absolutely no writing that off as anything but a heavy-handed come-on and that’s it, all Wade’s blood is now officially in his dick. He’s confused and turned on and apprehensive and doesn’t have the slightest idea where this is going.

“Look,” Nathan continues, “I’m really not trying to short-change you. That’s just all the cash I have on me right now. How about you just call it good, I’ll pay you the rest later. In the meantime, I’m going to take a shower. And to be clear, what I’m about to say absolutely isn’t about money, I’m not trying to pay you for anything other than what we already discussed. But, want to join me?”

“Join you? Hold on-- Do you mean--”

“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” the guy says with an eye-roll. He takes another slow step closer, laying a careful hand on Wade’s chest. “Yes.” The hand slides lower, the pressure solid and unhurried and inquisitive and giving Wade plenty of time to protest if he wants to. “You and me.” That hand slides down to squeeze his rock hard dick through the front of his sweats. “I was thinking hand jobs.”

_Hot sexy naked man touch dick! Say yes!_

“Yes!” Wade blurts.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it,” the guy says patronizingly, patting Wade’s chest before turning, stripping out of his pants and underwear and dropping them on his shirt next to his duffel, and heading for the shower stall furthest from the door.

God, what an ass. Literally. Metaphorically.

_**He’s still hot, whether or not he’s a jerk.** _

“True, voice in my head, true,” Wade mutters, watching in a daze until Nate steps into the far shower.

Wade is shoving the cash into his pants pocket with his car keys, then stripping off his own shirt at the same time as he’s kicking his shoes toward the row of lockers. His pants and boxers are shoved down his hips at just about the same time he starts getting a massive case of nerves. Sure, not all of him is as bad as his face, but it's still pretty bad. Nathan hasn't seen it all. But he'd seen his face. And his arms. He wouldn't have suggested this if he wasn't prepared for it to be bad everywhere else too. Right?

Padding quietly, he approaches the last stall, hears the water echoing, steps into the open space with the open curtain and feels the splash of water on his toes, the swirl of air pushed around by the shower spray. He pulls the curtain closed behind him, just in case someone else decides to finish their workout and come into the locker room.

Nathan is under the spray, back to the wall and facing toward Wade, hand raised to scrub at his hair, his face, the hair of his armpits, and the water is running in rivulets and sheets down his body. If Wade had gotten a good idea of the other man’s frame while sparring, and an eyeful when the guy had pulled his shirt off, this is _everything_ , laid out like a feast before him. Yeah, this guy has some scars--the ones on his face near his eye that bisect eyebrow and curve around his cheek, a number of ugly ones on his left side near the stump of his arm that rake across his shoulder and torso--but it’s nothing compared to the horror show he knows he’s sporting.

He feels woefully inadequate.

Doesn’t help that the water is running down this guy’s chest and abs, through silver gray pubes, and over a dick that's half hard but obviously picture-perfect, worthy of a porno.

“Holy shit,” Wade immediately says, “where the hell were you hiding that gorgeous thing?”

That earns him a snort, but Nathan doesn’t stop sluicing the water down his face, eyes closed.

“In my fucking pants,” he says dryly.

“See, that’s why you’re willing to do this,” Wade jokes, stepping closer. “Instead of regular _walking-around_ pants, today you put on your special _fucking_ pants. Is this a hobby? Luring random troublemakers into the shower with you?”

The other man finally wipes the water out of his eyes and moves forward another step, looking at Wade seriously. His gaze strays down Wade’s face, chest, lower, back up. It’s an unhurried gaze and there’s absolutely no change in Nathan’s expression. “Can’t say I’ve done this very often. Are you going to keep talking all day, or are you going to get over here?”

Undeterred, and even antagonized by the other’s complete lack of reaction, Wade bulls ahead. Self loathing is bubbling up, an acid etching through him, begging to spray out in his words, burn everything around him. “I bet you were in such a hurry to put on your special _fucking_ pants this morning that you forgot your old man glasses.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the other guy growls.

Wade laughs, and gestures at his torso.

“Come on. This? All of me? I’m ugly as hell. Why are you trying to hook up with shit like this?”

The other guy’s eyes narrow, and then Wade finds himself toe-to-toe with one extremely pissed-off Nathan Summers.


	3. Shower

What Nate sees is a guy somewhere around a decade younger than he is, scarred nearly head to toe, especially on his face where the scarring is bad enough to warp features, head either shaved or scarred so badly that his hair doesn’t grow in anymore … but still fit, well muscled, and attractive. And, fine, some of that attraction is specific to him, to the thrill of finding a rare sparring partner who might actually be something of a challenge, or the unusual enjoyment he’s felt trading verbal barbs that are just as much sparring as what their bodies had been doing. But that doesn’t stop this guy from being _attractive_ and still claiming he’s ugly as shit.

It brings back things, dark and rising out of memory like wisps of stinking smoke. Struggles he’d much rather pretend he’s forgotten. Aches in the soul that he’d thought were long-healed.

“Listen, fuckhead,” he snarls up into the guy’s startled face. “You may be burned and scarred to hell and back. But it matters shit-all. Trust me, I know what that’s like, looking in the mirror and not seeing the person you used to see. Hating the differences, hating the changes. I’ve known a lot of guys that had the same problem, had to sit in group counseling sessions and hear us all bitch about it. But you know what? _There’s no fucking problem with the way you look!”_

He steps to one side, and Wade instinctively pivots to keep facing him, then falls back as Nate takes slow, menacing steps forward, until he backs into the shower wall with a wince. 

“So,” he growls, stepping directly into Wade’s space, thigh pressing to thigh, reaching between them to wrap his fingers around a softened dick. “Are we going to have fun getting each other off or am I going to shove your head so far up your ass that you can see your tonsils?”

“Wow, you really have a way with dirty talk,” Wade gasps, hands scrabbling down, one pawing at a hip and the other managing to find Nate’s dick. “Who knew that being violently threatened was one of my turn-ons?”

That feels good, Wade’s hand closing around him, lighting up his senses, but Nate tries to concentrate on the feel of Wade’s cock under his fingers. Is that scar tissue he’s feeling, even here? Wade must have been in one hell of an accident. It feels … not bad under his fingers. Different, certainly, but not bad. Thickening and hardening as he strokes, straight shaft, good girth, and proportionally a little longer and a little less thick than his own, just like Wade is proportionally taller and more lanky than he is. He has some other ideas with what he’d like to do with this cock some other time. Lots of ideas. The head is hidden by foreskin that he pushes down, rubs a thumb over the silky head underneath and hears Wade’s breath hiss, sees his pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” the other asks in concern.

Nate sighs. “Really fucking sure.”

“Okay, your funeral if you pass out,” Wade says, and then grabs and whirls them both to shove Nate back against the tile.

He winces and is going to bitch, because _damn_ that’s cold, but then Wade reaches to one side, to the pump shampoo dispenser on the wall, and then a slick hand wraps around his cock and is stroking confidently and fast, and the other hand is squeezing a pec, mauling a nipple enthusiastically. The two together feel so damn good that Nate groans, tipping his head back against the tile, eyes half lidded. Wade’s style is all over the damned place, like he can’t stick to one idea for more than five seconds, but he’s using the right amount of pressure and making sure to hit all the good spots on Nate’s dick, so really, he’s not going to complain.

“Hot damn you’re stacked,” Wade pants, hips bucking into Nate’s hand, and Nate speeds up his own strokes. “Can I, mouth stuff, necking,” he babbles, “because, you know, ‘cause not everyone’s into _mmph!”_

Nate cuts off the stupid question by surging upward, getting his mouth on Wade’s. The other opens instantly for him, moaning at it, and the hand that was on his chest moves to bracing on the wall next to Nate’s head instead.

This is one of the few things that drives Nate crazy about missing an arm. He wants to touch. Wants to run a hand all over Wade’s abs, wants to feel every scar so the guy knows he doesn’t mind them, wants to pinch his nipples until he moans. But he can’t, because he has only one hand and it’s busy with Wade’s dick. He sweeps his thumb over the glans and Wade gasps into his mouth.

It’s not very coordinated and there’s no finesse, just too guys hungrily kissing while jerking each other off, Wade curled down a little to keep his mouth on Nate’s. It’s the chill of the air and wet skin and solid tile, the heat of another body. It’s not having a fucking clue what will work on Wade, but finding that apparently _everything_ works. Nate’s not sure he’s ever had someone so damn _responsive_ under his fingers. Like Wade is one big, raw nerve, and he’s broadcasting noisily and enthusiastically just how _amazing_ everything is; there are gasps into his mouth, breathy hitching groans in time to Nate’s wrist action, and a quivering intensity in Wade’s whole being.

Nate twists his hand at the end of his stroke, rubbing just right, and Wade full on moans, a throaty thing full of desperation, and sags against him. Is it an act, Nate wonders, like a prostitute putting on a good show for a customer, the performance part of the service? Somehow he doubts it. Wade so far has been more eager to fight or insult than to please. It doesn’t seem likely that he’d switch to indulging Nate’s ego now when he hadn’t earlier when money was on the line.

Which means, Nate concludes, that this is genuine, and that Wade really is falling absolutely to pieces over something as simple as a hand job, and that goes straight to his ego. It wouldn’t matter how bad Wade’s technique was, Nate could get hard solely on how desperate Wade sounds for what he’s getting. And it turns out that Wade’s technique, that slick slide of a firm--but unpredictable--hand, while seemingly less intentionally action-reaction driven and more try-a-bit-of-everything good, is still managing to hit all the right notes. It’s pairing with the panting little gasps Wade is doing against his lips, the whines when Nate tries something a little extra-special good to create a perfect song, crescendo building and sending Nate hurtling full speed toward orgasm.

It would be embarrassing how quickly he’s nearly there, except Wade beats him to it with a strangled gasp, seizing and pulsing under his fingers, fingers grabbing Nate’s shoulder and holding on so tight that he can feel the prick of every fingernail as warm, wet slick splatter’s Nate’s stomach, slides down under his fingers as he works Wade through it, until the other is gasping and twitching, like he isn’t sure if he wants to hump Nate’s hand or pull away in over-sensitized satiation.

He lets go of Wade’s already softening erection and bats the other’s now slowing, uncoordinated hand off his own hard cock, then jerks himself off quickly and efficiently with Wade leaning into him like Nate's the only thing keeping him off the bathroom floor, watches the other’s slack-jawed post-orgasm face staring down as he comes all over Wade’s stomach.

And then he’s just a guy leaning against cold shower tile with one hand around his own dick, wondering what he’s just done and whether it’s going to turn out to be a horrible idea or not. He doesn’t protest when Wade’s face drops to his shoulder. The sound of the shower and of slowing breath continues, a quiet white noise in the background, drawing out the silence. There’s a giggle against his skin.

“So, am I hired?”

God, what a way to break the mood. He smacks the back of the smart-ass’s head with his cum-covered hand. “I already paid you! I said this isn’t related!”

The taller man straightens and pulls away, like he hadn’t been full-on leaning just a moment ago, steps back into the stream of water and starts scrubbing at the sticky mess. Nate keeps leaning against the wall and watches while still feeling the pleasant, post-orgasm buzz.

“You handed me a wad of cash and then seduced me,” Wade declares cheerfully. “Now I can turn you in to the cops for pedophilia _and_ hiring a prostitute.”

Nate sighs, like the sigh is coming from the very bottom of his lungs and won’t stop until every bit of air is gone. He wonders why in the world he’s attracted to this guy. He’s either dumb as a post, intentionally being a pain in the ass, delusional, or all three.

At that moment Wade turns and starts scrubbing his face under the shower spray and Nate’s eyes go straight to the other guy’s ass, and that’s definitely part of the answer. It’s not bad, as such body parts go, muscular like the rest of him and with great definition. Nate has a sudden urge to step forward, get right behind Wade, grind his now-soft cock against that ass … but he sighs and admits that would be overstepping. As of now, this is just a one-time deal. They’re not fucking regularly … although he admits to himself he wouldn’t mind working in that direction. But currently they’re just two guys who had a minor hookup in a shower and now need to have a working relationship.

Wade finishes washing up and wanders past Nate out of the shower stall, of course neglecting to draw the curtain closed behind him, and, from the sound of it, finding the cart with the stack of dry towels near the door. 

Nate finally peels himself off the wall to close the curtain again, not so much for modesty as that it’s colder with the air free to move in and out of the shower area, gets under the spray, and takes his time soaping up and rinsing off.

When he finally strolls out and heads for his own dry towel, Wade is fully dressed and sitting on one of the benches, muttering under his breath to himself. He stops abruptly as soon as he notices Nate, then watches in rapt attention while Nate dries off. The level of staring would strike Nate as rather rude, except that, for one thing, Wade doesn’t seem to be staring at his arm so much as at the entirety of him. Also, they’d just had their hands on each other’s dicks and he’s not body shy, so really, what’s there to get upset about?

Wade clears his throat. “So, about this job…”

“Yeah?”

He keeps getting dressed while waiting for Wade to come up with another sentence. Now that he’s toweled off, he digs around in his duffel bag and pulls out his prosthetic arm, checking it over briefly before sliding it over the titanium pin that juts out from the end of his left arm’s stump, then locking it in place. He uses his good arm to adjust the elbow and the angle of the hand, opens and closes it a few times to make sure the connection is good and nothing’s busted. The metal and silicone and carbon fiber myoelectric prosthesis is absolutely state-of-the-art and expensive, but it’s still prone to breaking from time to time.

Wade makes a breathy sound and Nate looks over at him sharply. “Don’t mind me, Six Million Dollar Man,” Wade says, eyes wide and entranced, and Nate sighs again.

Now that he has two hands, he digs through his bag for underwear, then pants, then socks. Two hands makes the tasks much easier, even if his robotic hand doesn’t have the nimbleness of his flesh one, somewhat limited to a careful pincer grip to help with most of the tasks.

“You were asking about the job,” he prompts pointedly, when Wade doesn’t seem to be doing anything but watching intently as he starts pulling on a short-sleeved shirt.

Wade sighs as Nate tugs the shirt down over his abs. Nate cocks an eyebrow at him, but Wade doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, the job,” Wade finally says. “Who, what, where, when, why, and how type stuff. What do your girl and her boyfriend look like? Where and when am I going to find them? Exactly what should I do and not do so that you’ll be willing to try that shower thing again instead of just punching my lights out?”

“Actually,” Nate says casually, pulling on his shoes, “I thought next time might involve a bed. Assuming you don’t screw anything up.”

Wade’s jaw drops for yet another time today, and Nate manfully resists the urge to laugh out loud. He settles for smirking instead as he shoves the last of his clothes into the duffel bag, zips it and stands, swinging it over his good shoulder as he does so.

“Definitely soliciting a prostitute,” he hears Wade mutter to himself. “Shut up, I know what that makes me! Yeah, that too.” Then, louder and to Nate as he stands, “This is attempted manslaughter. I am going to die if you keep saying things like that and don’t follow through!”

“Well, then you’d better do this job right,” Nate says in amusement, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it, looking for a picture of Hope and Emil.

He doesn't take many photos himself, so he finds one almost immediately, something Hope had sent him. It’s a selfie, Hope holding the phone and grinning at the camera, wavy red hair glinting brightly in the sunlight, a bit wild and mussed in places but still beautiful, leaning into Emil’s space so she can get his surprised face in the photo as well. The Seattle skyline runs behind them--a really great view. He recalls Emil had paid for them to go somewhere expensive and high up that day. Maybe the Space Needle? Maybe the Great Wheel? Yeah, it had been the Great Wheel, he recalls, seeing the other pictures Hope had sent him from that day. Hope holding a starfish from the wharf-front aquarium touch pool. Emil and Hope standing by the wharf railing--they must have asked a passerby to take the photo. A picture of Emil looking startled, likeness forever captured mid-yell as a gull dives at him. That one never fails to make Nate snort derisively.

He stops on the photo of Hope and Emil in front of the Sound. This is a good picture, it shows their relative heights, the lighting is good, their faces clear.

But then he hesitates. Looks up and at Wade, who is currently slouched on the bench and digging in his ear with a finger.

“I really don’t know if I can trust you,” he admits slowly. “This is my daughter we’re talking about.” He looks down at the picture again. The fly-aways from Hope’s hair are like a halo, her smile brilliant.

“Hello? You’re the jerk who pretended he wanted to meet my daughter. If there’s anyone here low on trust, it ought to be me!”

Nate sighs. Looks up to catch Wade’s eye. “You’re right, that was a shitty stunt. Sorry.”

Wade holds Nate’s gaze for long seconds, apparently trying to maintain the glare but as Nate’s apologetic gaze doesn’t flicker, he eventually frowns.

“Are you just saying that? Or do you really mean that?”

“No way for you to know unless you’re a mindreader,” Nate says with a shrug. “But yeah, I mean it. I probably would have punched you if you’d tried that. It was shitty of me.”

Wade looks thoughtful, then reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a phone. Flips through it for a few seconds, then holds it up so Nate can see.

It is not at all what he is expecting.

A picture of a little girl looks back at him. She’s crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue, fingers pulling her mouth wide. Messy, wavy, dark hair is mostly pulled back, but some has escaped to fluff messily out around her face. It’s obviously Wade’s face looking over her shoulder at the camera making a ridiculous fish-face of his own.

There’s something in the curve of their eyes, the shape of the nose and proportions of the chin, that makes him understand what he’s looking at even before Wade says, “This is Ellie. My daughter.”

Nate studies the picture for a few more seconds, committing it to memory. Then he sighs. “Thank you.” He turns his own phone toward Wade. “And this is Hope.”

And then he and Wade discuss the necessary details.


	4. Tacos

It’s been four days since Wade’s seen Nate or had any communication with him. Four days where he goes about his business. Does a few good deeds, does a few bad ones. He sends some emails back and forth to Ellie with funny selfies, or jokes he thinks she’ll like, or tips on how to deal with the mean kid at school without getting caught. He lies on his bed and stares at the ancient, water-stained ceiling. He watches a lot of Netflix.

The moments when he thinks about Nate aren’t really that numerous, or at least he likes to tell himself they aren’t. Still, in the moments when his mind wanders, he finds narrow blades of memory, sharp and immediate, intruding upon his thoughts. The mischievous glint of light brown eyes. A particularly good joke or insult. Nate still owes him forty-two dollars. The deep rumble of his voice. That fucking cool arm. The feel of warm muscle bunched against his own. That fucking smirk--no way should he get involved with someone who’s that full of himself, he tells himself firmly. How easy the guy touched him, didn’t shy away in repulsion. His slack-jawed, blissed out face when he came.

Okay, fine, maybe he’s thinking about him a lot.

It’s dumb, because he’s known the the guy for all of a couple hours, and yeah, the sex stuff was pretty amazing and the thought of getting more of it makes him have to adjust his pants and think about ice water and himself naked and other turn-offs so he doesn’t pop a boner in public, but even so, Nate’s basically a stranger. They’ve essentially been on one very strange first date that wasn’t even really a date.

It was really way closer to a Grindr hookup. Except with more punching.

He tries to ignore any hope that it’s going to turn into anything more. Rich, high-class guy like that, he’s not interested in Wade long-term. This is just a thing Nate’s amusing himself with while Wade’s doing a job for him.

And yet he can’t help hoping that every notification sound his phone makes is the promised message from Nate.

When the text finally comes in, he’s in the middle of doing his laundry. He’s just shoved everything into the decrepit old machine in the little laundry closet in Al’s house, and is about to get the detergent, when his phone goes ding. Pulling it out of his pocket reveals that he has a text from Hot Daddy.

He’d gleefully named the contact that while Nate had watched and given another one of those very long sighs.

_I have the time and location. Can you meet to discuss?_

_I told you, in person costs more  
Just tell me_

_I'd rather do this in person. Is there a good time and place to talk?_

_Your so weird  
Buy me lunch  
Tomorrow  
Where do u work?_

_Downtown Bellevue_

Wade thinks for a second, then sends the name and regular Thursday location of a taco truck he knows. It's a couple blocks northeast of where he met Nate on Saturday, so maybe it'll work.

_U like Mexican? Theres this food truck that’s good_

There's a long pause. He assumes Nate is checking out the links, but he still gets worried as seconds pass and then minutes. What if Nate doesn’t like Mexican? Or food trucks? The man can’t be that soullessly upper class, can he? He dumps a big cup of detergent into the machine, starts the water, closes the lid.

His phone dings again. He snatches it up off the top of the dryer.

_Yes, that looks good. I can do 12:15 tomorrow._

_sure see ya then_

Wade lets out a long breath in relief. Then he slams his fist down on the corner of the washing machine lid, in the spot you have hit the thing just right to make it start running. Like most things in the house, it's a couple of decades past working completely right.

_This is too good to be true. You're going to screw it up somehow._

"Shut up. It'll be fine," he mutters under his breath. "Nate just wants to talk details in person. Paranoid no-electronic-traces guy, that's all. There's nothing to screw up."

His phone dings again.

He pulls it out of his pocket. Stares at the notification.

_Great. I’m looking forward to seeing you again._

Wade slowly turns around, backs against the washing machine. Then slowly slides down it until he's sitting on the laundry closet floor leaning against the shiver and vibration of the machine behind him, forearms resting on knees as he stares at the message.

_**Oh boy, your crush likes you too.** _

"It's not a crush! I'm just …"

_Infatuated with someone you can't have? That's a crush._

"Shut up. He likes me too. Maybe," Wade mutters, still staring at the text. Except did Nate really like _him_? What was his angle? What was he trying to get? "Shit. Or he liked being a know-it-all and the fighting and the handjobs. Or it’s because of the job. No fucking way to know if he likes _me_."

There’s a big difference between someone enjoying getting their rocks off and hopefully ensuring quality service at the same time and someone _liking_ a loser with questionable morals and no future and a face like roadkill and a personality that’s abrasive at the best of times.

Given Wade’s track record, he’s pretty sure he knows which it is.

But still… What if... What if, even with all that, what if Nate actually likes him…

_You haven't answered. He's going to think you're freaked out by what he said and that you hate him._

"Shit!" Wade's thumbs hover over the screen. _“Me too,”_ or, _“Fuck off, asshole, this is business,”_ both come to mind, but he doesn’t really want to send either. He takes a deep breath, then does what he often does: leans hard into truth and joke at the same time.

_I still think there’s something wrong with your eyes old man  
But i’m going to enjoy getting another eyeful ;)_

The response is almost immediate, and Wade huffs a relieved breath.

_Not in the way you mean. And me too._

Crap. No smiley face or winky face to add any emotional nuance to it. Just flat out saying “me too”, claiming he’d enjoy getting an eyeful of Wade. Not that Wade was really expecting emojis. Nate seems way too straight-laced to add that kind of crap to his texts.

_You’ve got a crush on a total square._

But even the whispered inner voice sounds a bit more fond than accusing.

~~~~~~~~

Thursday turns out to be a day like most days in early spring: raining lightly and steadily, like the clouds had moved in off the ocean and sound and then decided to disintegrate all over the land. It's cool without being downright cold, definitely safely above freezing, but definitely unpleasant and uncomfortable weather, especially if you don't like the rain.

Wade drives up to the city after morning rush hour. He parks in a free lot that declares LIBRARY PARKING ONLY in about as many different ways and places as possible, then walks into the long, tall lobby of the library, his footsteps echoing up high and bright from the concrete floor to the massive pine board rafters. Then he walks out the door on the other end of the lobby.

_Rules are for suckers!_

As far as Wade can tell, the locals don't even seem to notice the rain. They wear waterproof jackets and pull up their hoods or slap on a hat. If you haul out an umbrella they look at you like you’re a wimp.

He suspects some of them are growing moss on their heads instead of hair.

Since his last umbrella got broken over some punk’s head, he just keeps his hood up and his head tilted forward, hands in his jacket pockets, and stays under the overhang of building storefronts as much as possible and heads for the meeting place.

The food trucks gather every weekday in the parking lot of a big, blocky, concrete building that has the look of having been repurposed multiple times in its lifetime. Currently it's being used by a church in the heart of downtown, but that means they can rope off the small parking lot on weekdays for the food trucks. He's a little early, around 11:30, but there are already people coming and going. The weather seems to be cutting down on office workers dressed in business clothes or business casual, but there are plenty of the local tech workers in jackets and jeans. People leaving are hunched forward, protectively clutching their clamshells of cardboard or styrofoam, or bags, or disposable paper trays filled with delicious things.

The trucks have just as much variety to them as the people. Dim sum. Burgers. An Indian truck called Naan-sense. Thai. And of course the taco truck. It all smells absolutely amazing.

Wade saunters over to the boxy, red taco truck with Tacos la Flaca emblazoned on the side.

“Hola, Rosa. Cómo estás?” he calls out. The hispanic lady inside the truck sticks her head out, then grins down at him. She has features that tend toward the wide side, broad and friendly-looking. Dark hair with some highlighted streaks is pulled back neatly in a bun, very health-code-appropriate. He once did her a favor, _pro bono_ , about some drunk white guys who were harassing her and her truck and ever since she’s always been happy to see him and give him a free plate of tacos.

_“Wade! I’m good! You? You want your usual?”_

_“I’m good. No, I’m going to come back in a few minutes with a guy. Can you do me a favor?”_

_“Depends on the favor,”_ she says suspiciously.

_“I’m trying to figure out if he’s for real or not. Seems too good to be true. Can you make life hard on him? Don’t be mean, just let him get frustrated and nasty if he’s that kind of asshole.”_

She gives him a shrewd look. _“This a date? Or work?”_

 _“Rosa, come on.”_ He spreads his arms theatrically. _“Who’s going to date me? This is work, all the way.”_

_“If it’s not a date, what do you care if he’s an asshole? Just take his money. It’s what I gotta do every day.”_

_“I know, customer service sucks, whether you’re breaking eggs or kneecaps.”_ She chuckles. _“Come on, help me out?”_

She gives him a look that implies she thinks he’s not telling the truth--which, _fair_ , he isn’t--and says warningly, _“I don’t want a bad review, Wade.”_

_“Well then just be a little annoying, see how he takes it.”_

She thinks about it. Finally nods. _“Okay. For you. Now quit hogging my line!”_ she grins, taking the sting out of it.

“Gracias, Rosa,” he grins back. Pulls a twenty out of his pocket and slides it into the tip can hung outside the truck window. “You’re the best.” She snorts in a way that implies _damn right I am_.

He quickly moves so the next person can order, and meanders over to the church entrance. He loiters there, near the doors and out of the rain, trying not to think about being bored and cold, until 12:13. Then he heads back for the food trucks, stopping where he can see all of them and waiting.

According to his phone, Nate appears at exactly 12:15, walking into the lot from the south. Wade notices him instantly. He’s not entirely sure if he should be able to notice him that fast, hyper aware of the particular body shape that means ‘Nathan Summers’, but there you are, and there Nate is, striding in a knee-length gray trench coat over what looks like a full-on suit from what he can see. Wade swallows. He was sure Nate was doing some sort of well-paying business, but seeing the way he’s dressed confirms it. That’s obviously hundreds of dollars of clothes and tailoring.

He waves, but it’s fairly unnecessary because Nate is making a beeline directly for him.

“Jeez, man, you’re freakily on time,” Wade comments as Nate strides up.

“You live by the clock as an attorney,” Nate says with a slight shrug. “Guess I’ve gotten in the habit of being on time.”

_Hear that? Attorney. Ay kay ay smart and rich._

_**So out of your league it isn’t even funny.** _

“Ready for some tacos?” Wade asks, resolutely trying to ignore the thoughts.

“Sure. But first, here,” Nate says, and pulls his non-robot hand out of his trench coat pocket to hand something to Wade. It looks like cash and he takes it automatically, then unrolls the tight little wad of bills and counts them.

Ninety-two dollars.

“The forty-two I owe you plus fifty for today,” Nate says, as if giving people cash for having lunch with you was utterly expected and not at all worth lowering your voice over.

Wade stares at the cash for several seconds longer than he should. He should just move. Put the money away. But the fact that Nate had _remembered_ how much he owed him, that Nate had _voluntarily remembered_ and Wade hadn’t needed to harass him, that Nate had _listened_ and _remembered_ how much Wade had charged for the first trip up here, and that, most importantly, Nate had _followed through_ \--it all points to Nate being a decent human being and respecting Wade personally and professionally.

Wade really isn’t used to that.

Realizing he can’t just keep staring at a wad of bills in public, he hurriedly shoves the cash into his pants pocket.

“Alright. Tacos.” He slaps his hands together and rubs them briskly while trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t be completely smitten by this and convince his dick that this is a damn weird thing to get half-hard over.

_**Respect is sexy.** _

Nate nods and leads the way. 

There’s a line by now, a pair of women in front of them, and they wait side-by-side.

“So … you got something?”

“Yes. Hope’s been trying to guilt me that I haven’t seen her in a while. So I freed up some time. She and Emil are coming to Bellevue tomorrow. We’re going to have drinks and dinner at Purple.”

“Purple? Really?”

Nate cocks his head at him.

“Isn’t that that pretentious date night trendy place? The one with all the wine?”

“Yeah, that’s probably a fair description,” Nate says with a shrug. “Anyway, they’re supposed to meet me there at 6:30. Figured you could do your thing after we eat, as we’re coming out.”

Wade frowns, because he doesn’t like the idea of waiting around for Nate and his marks to finish a long, slow, expensive dinner. And then the ladies ahead of them are done and it’s their turn for tacos.

Nate steps up to the window and orders the plate of two tacos--tofurizo, and Wade feels both eyebrows going up incredulously and can’t wait to tease Nate about that protein choice--with a side of chips and salsa. Then Rosa reads the order back to him completely wrong in an accent twice as strong as her usual one, and Wade rubs at his face to cover the involuntary grin.

Nate tries again, and Wade watches him carefully. No looking impatient. No snapping. Just placing his order a second time.

Rosa apologizes, then gets the order wrong in new, different, and creative ways.

Nate looks puzzled, like he can’t figure out what’s wrong, … and switches to Spanish to try a third time.

Wade figures Rosa’s surprised expression is just about a mirror of his own. She shoots him a quick glance and he mouths _“it’s fine”_ at her, gesturing in something that’s supposed to imply ‘go ahead, no need to mess with him any more’, and this time she gets the order right, apologizes profusely, and offers Nate a free drink for his trouble--he chooses a horchata--while he smiles at her and says it’s fine and makes small talk, all in fluent Spanish.

Then it’s Wade’s turn and he blinks a couple times and then manages to order three tacos--al pastor, pollo de barbacoa, and lengua--and a Jarritos, because delicious, _delicious_ sugar, also in Spanish, because why not.

Nate pays for them both, and then he slips an additional bill into the tip jar. Wade’s pretty sure it was at least a ten and he feels his higher brain functions shutting down.

 _ **He’s not a jerk. You’re so doomed.**_ The thought feels resigned.

_Oh em gee, he’s so dreamy!_

There are a couple minutes of waiting as Rosa quickly slaps their orders together inside the truck. Then she’s handing down their food and drinks, smiling nicely to Nate, and then, as she hands Wade his order, she leans out the window and whispers very quietly, _“Totally a date,”_ and then cracks up at his outraged expression.

He makes a face at her even as he’s turning away, cold glass bottle in one hand and balanced paper tray of corn tortillas and meat and onions and deliciousness in the other.

“Exactly where do you want to eat this?” Nate says in wry amusement, one hand hovering over his food to shield it from the mist.

“Uh. I was hanging out on the church steps earlier.”

“Great,” Nate says, and turns that way, leaving Wade to trail along after him, cursing quietly to himself, reflecting on everything right and wrong right now.

There’s the fact that Hot Daddy cuts a pretty sexy figure in his trench coat and fancy clothes. As he crosses the parking lot he twists his head side to side, keeping an eye on the surroundings, and the combination of the inherent watchfulness, the ruggedness of his features, the gray in his hair, the broadness of the shoulders hinted at through the jacket, the fact that Wade clearly remembers how good Nate had looked _without_ his clothes … well … Objectively Wade knows Nate is good looking, but not that good looking. But his hormones are practically hallucinating shoujo manga cherry blossoms and sparkles around the guy.

So, okay, there’s the fact that Nate is apparently really and truly not an asshole to real people, or at least signs point in that direction. He was nice to Rosa. He remembered he owed Wade money. He’s spent enough time in somewhere other than white-collar America to pick up Spanish that well.

If Wade is being honest with himself, there’s an edge of the military around the guy, with the curt way he speaks, the way he holds himself, the way he lapses back into obscenities as soon as he gets frustrated. And Wade’s always had a soft spot for a hot guy who outranks him telling him what dirty things to do.

Taken altogether it’s a very tempting, sexy picture, makes Wade want to do stupid things, forget about the fact that most human beings turn out to be selfish pieces of shit if he lets himself get close to them.

He really wants to believe that maybe Nate is different.

Of course, Nate also apparently has _terrible_ taste in _everything_ if the soy chorizo and maybe, possibly finding something appealing in _Wade_ of all people are any indication. Can’t get much more ill-advised than that, right?

He should not be attracted. He absolutely needs to not be attracted. He needs to keep this professional.

 _ **And yet you’re crushing like a schoolgirl on her new, hot, substitute teacher**_ , the thought pipes up mockingly.

Nate turns and lowers himself onto the concrete stairs, and Wade follows, plopping down beside him, keeping a manly, heterosexual body width between them. Nate sets the drink down beside him, a careful motion that uses the prosthetic hand, and then balances the tray in his lap, slightly supporting it with that same left hand, and starts eating with his right. Wade shoves half a taco in his mouth in one bite, mostly so he doesn’t have to try to say anything, but also because Rosa’s tacos are the real deal, tender and spicy and full of onions and so worth it.

Nate takes a much saner bite. Chews. Swallows. “So, what do you think?”

“I think,” Wade says, talking through chewing his second massive bite, “that you should be ashamed of yourself. Putting tofurizo on a taco! Tofu! On tacos! That’s sacrilege! Unholy fusion cuisine!”

“It tastes mostly like chorizo. Same spices,” Nate says with a shrug and another bite. Then, once he swallows, “Plus it’s a healthier protein choice and the greenhouse gas emissions for soybeans are way lower than for pork.”

“Did you seriously just say greenhouse gas emissions?”

Nate’s brow furrows. “Humans are fucking the planet every which way we can right now. Damn right I said greenhouse gas emissions.”

“You’re sexy when you’re grumpy,” Wade declares, picking up his second taco and slurping at where some delicious drippy stuff is escaping off the end onto his hand.

Nate snorts, but looks perhaps a little pleased. “And you’re a disaster,” he snorts again as Wade accidentally drops some raw onions onto his shirt while taking another huge bite.

“I’m showing proper appreciation for the food,” Wade says around his mouthful, reaching for the Jarritos and twisting the cap off.

“It _is_ pretty good.”

“Damn right,” Wade agrees, takes a swig, and reaches over to steal one of Nate’s chips.

Nate sighs. “So what do you think of _tomorrow_?”

“It’s Friday? It might stop raining?”

“Tomorrow and Hope, you intentionally obtuse chuckle-fuck.”

“I think it makes sense to wait until after you all eat and come out, because you’ll probably all have something to drink. This kid should be easier to rile up, everyone’s reaction times’ll be worse,” Wade says immediately. “I just hate the fact I’m going to hang around in the cold, trying to look like I’m not loitering, waiting for a text from you that says, ‘hey, we’re finished eating our fancy food and drinking wine while you froze your ass off, coming on out now!’”

Nate shrugs. “That’s true,” he says between bites. “I can text when we’re starting to wrap up dinner, then again when we’re getting the check, if you want to wait somewhere a little further away and warmer.”

“Yeah, that could work,” Wade grudgingly admits. He leans over and steals another chip, plus dips it in Nate’s salsa for good measure.

“You’re a brat. You know that?” the other says in exasperation.

Wade pops the chip in his mouth with a flourish. “Yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it, Daddy?” he grins back.

“Jesus,” Nate mutters, eyes clenching shut and head tilting back like he’s praying for strength. Wade takes the opportunity to steal a third chip and more salsa. “Fine.” Nate opens his eyes again to fix Wade with a glare edged with amusement. “You can wait in the rain or wherever you want. Start at 6:30 just in case, but it’ll probably be closer to 7:30 before we’re done. Now tell me what you plan to do, so I know you won’t screw it up.”

Wade shrugs and starts on his third taco as he considers. “Wait for you to come out and walk away from the entrance. Don’t want to start a scene right in the doorway. I’ll walk toward you all. Act a little drunk. Hit on your daughter, act gross and entitled. See if I can get him to step in. If he does, I’ll see if I can poke his buttons. Can I punch him if he swings at me?”

Nate shrugs. “Sure, but don’t do permanent damage. I doubt he’s ever been punched before, so anything you do is going to surprise and scare the hell out of him.”

“Okay, nothing broken. If she decides she wants to fight her own battle, I won’t hurt her and I’ll back down. Either way, I get out of there. Guess that’s it.”

“Yes,” Nate agrees with a tight nod, “that’s it.”

Which reminds Wade that after this job, there’s no particular reason to see Nate again. His stomach feels like the tacos just turned to lead in his stomach, heavy and poisonous. At least Nate’ll have to see him once to pay him, but that’s not much consolation.

“Kinda weird,” he tries. “Paying all this just to _maybe_ throw a punch, _maybe_ get your kid riled up. Sure you don’t want me to just beat him up instead? I know you said no damage, but--”

“No,” Nate interrupts. “I know it’s a lot of money for not much, but I need to engineer this. She needs to--” He cuts himself off. Thinks for a second. “I really _want_ her to take a good look at him, whether he’s really what she wants. What she deserves. If you beat him up, she’s just going to see a martyr and someone to fuss over and help and protect.”

“Okay. Well. If you change your mind,” Wade tries, “you have my info. I can do a follow-up job.”

“Don’t worry,” Nate says with a wink, “I won’t delete your contact.”

“Oh. Great,” is all Wade can think to say, and he hurriedly chugs his Jarrito to hopefully mask his expression and the warmth he can feel on his face.

 _Holy shit, he really is into you_ , his resident intrusive thought pipes up. Wade feels a bit insulted by how incredulous it sounds.

Nate snorts and then they sit there, Nate finishing his second taco and drinking his horchata and Wade drinking sugary, day-glo lemon-lime goodness while making lazy commentary on the state of the world and humanity passing by them. He also continues to steal occasional chips. Nate doesn’t try to stop him or even seem annoyed by it now, which takes half the fun out of it.

“Alright,” Nate finally says, scooping up his garbage and standing up. “I’m going back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” Wade says lamely. “See you tomorrow.”

Nate hesitates just a moment, like he’s considering saying something else and then thinking better of it, and then he turns and leaves.

Wades watches him walk away, growing smaller and mingling with the downtown crowds until he turns a corner and is gone.

He knows he should be thinking about tomorrow. Or what he’s going to do with the other half of the money after the job is done. But instead all he can think about is the feel of Nate sitting next to him, the little flutter in his chest every single time Nate listened to the stupid things he had to say or didn’t seem to get disgusted when Wade provoked him. Sure, he had acted a little irritated, but it had seemed edged with a certain amusement too.

_Not bad for a second date._

He can’t help but think that the thought is right.


	5. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pattern should be a Nate POV chapter here, but rules are made to be broken. Here's another chapter of Wade instead. Don’t worry, Nate will be back for Chapter 6.

He actually gets started way earlier on Friday than he has to. He tells himself he’s being thorough about the job or that he wants to make sure he doesn’t get stuck in traffic, but that’s a blatant lie. His nerves are a twitchy mess that he’s going to be late to Nate’s job, which is ridiculous because while he’s a fuck-up about many things, he knows how to be punctual when money is involved. But yet, here he is, checking his watch every five minutes to make sure he isn’t late.

So instead of waiting and going even crazier than he already is, he hops in his ancient, beat-up import, turns the key … and nothing happens, if “nothing” can mean the vague attempt by the engine to turn over followed by a swift, dying gurgle and every light on the dashboard dimming and then going out.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit,” Wade curses. Tries turning the key again. And again. Then remembers how the lights had been dimming when he started the car for a couple weeks. He groans, head dropping onto the steering wheel. “Battery. It’s the battery. And I don’t have cash to fix it until after I do this job! Shit, shit, shit, can’t get the cash if I can’t get to the job!”

_And you can’t impress your crush either._

“Shut _up!”_ he snaps, climbing out of the car and slamming the door so hard the whole car shakes. Then he stomps in a circle around it. Kicks the bumper for good measure, hard enough that it pops out of alignment. He winces, glances around to see if anyone saw that, then shoves on it until it pops back into place.

“Okay, think,” he mutters to himself, and pulls out his phone. “No, not Weasel, he’s still pissed about the whiskey and the furry suit. Bob? No, his wife is still pissed at me, he’s gonna be ball-less if he helps me. Oh!” He taps a contact and slaps the phone to his ear.

As soon as the other end picks up, he exclaims, “Dopinder! My angel on four wheels! My charioteer!”

 _“Mr. Wilson?”_ says the sweetly accented voice on the other end questioningly. His sweet little tiger has never managed to switch over to something more informal.

“Get your awesome little car over here _now_ , Dopinder,” Wade says forcefully. “Time is of the essence.”

_“Oh, Mr. Wilson, I would love to, but I am not driving tonight and--”_

“ _Now_ , Dopinder,” Wade repeats, putting every ounce of feeling he can muster into the voice. “I need you. There’s a hot man and his daughter waiting for me, and I need to be on time.”

Wade can practically feel Dopinder wrinkling his cute little nose through the phone. _“Mr. Wilson, I am aware of some of the unsavory media content you can find on Pornhub, but everyone tells me those people are pretending to be family. I do not think it is actually legal to--”_

“Dopinder!” Now he lays on the shock as thick as he can, shock and horror. “You think I would--? I would never! There’s a client waiting for me, depending on me for the future health and safety of his little baby girl! And you’re accusing me of terrible things? I’m hurt! Terribly, terribly hurt! To make it up to me, I need you to pick me up from my house and drop me off in Bellevue.”

There’s a heavy sigh over the cell phone. _“Yes, Mr. Wilson. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”_

“That’s the spirit,” Wade says cheerfully and hangs up.

He stomps around and kicks his car a few more times--more gently though--and eventually Dopinder pulls up. Wade slides into the front seat next to him.

“The city, James, and make it snappy!” he exclaims, then helps himself to fiddling with the stereo system, then with Dopinder’s uber playlists on his phone while the poor kid protests weakly.

It’s a fairly uneventful drive. No one tries to cut them off or anything. He gets dropped a few blocks south of his target.

“That will be twenty-two dollars,” Dopinder says hopefully, holding out a hand. Wade grins and shakes it instead of depositing cash.

“Thanks, man, you’re a lifesaver.” Then when Dopinder sighs dejectedly and starts to turn back to his steering wheel, he says, “And don’t you dare let me take advantage of you that way. Come on, what did I teach you?”

Dopinder hesitates, mouth hovering in a cute little oh shape of surprise, eyes big and startled.

“Um… I matter?”

“And?”

“My opinion counts?”

“And?”

“I can ask for what I want and need?”

“And?”

“Mr. Wilson, may I have my twenty-two dollars?”

“Try a little more assertive.”

Dopinder squares his shoulders and puts some force into his voice. “Mr. Wilson, you owe me a fare of twenty-two dollars.”

“That’s my boy!” Wade leans all the way through the passenger window to affectionately ruffle Dopinder’s hair. The kid looks startled, but also leans into it, and then happily grabs the cash from Wade’s hand before driving away. Wade watches him go.

_**Picking up strays again, I see.** _

“I helped him with his love life, he drives me places,” Wade says to the air with a shrug.

Then he turns and starts walking north.

Stupid car. He really isn’t looking forward to catching a bus or ride back home later. At least it’s not raining. And at least he is still early, even with his shitty car battery giving out on him.

In fact, the clouds are breaking apart and the evening sun is spilling up the street from the direction of the lake, right up 4th Street and into his eyes. The road is still wet, reflecting the sunlight in a double dose of blinding fusion ball right into his eyes.

He walks along the wide and smooth concrete sidewalk, past the modern highrise that houses the restaurant on the ground floor. The patinaed, iron doors, ten feet tall at least, proclaim ‘Purple Food and Wine Bar.’ Through the windows he glimpses curving wrought iron and massive racks of wine bottles, making it very clear this is a hip, trendy place where you can get a polite and expensive level of sloshed. He keeps walking downhill, crossing streets, scoping out the lay of the land, then strolls around some of the other nearby blocks as well, making circles in the slanting up-and-down hills of Bellevue. Just in case someone chases him or the cops show up, he wants to know where to run, where to hide, where not to run and get trapped. Because of course Purple is all of three blocks from the downtown police station.

He really hopes no one calls the cops.

He meanders around. Plops onto a bench under a shelter at the bus station, pulls his hoodie down low over his face, tucks his hands in his pockets, and tries to snooze.

And waits.

And waits.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.

And waits.

He actually falls into a doze for a while, but the _buzz_ of his phone brings him fully awake. He hurriedly yanks it out of his pocket. Checks the time: 7:36. Pulls up his texts.

_They ordered dessert._

He hops up and hurriedly starts walking.

The city streets are a different kind of bright than before, bathed in regular pools of glow from the street lights, with the lights of a steady stream of cars going up and down 4th Street shining in his eyes instead of the sun. He hurries the several blocks to Purple, then slows down at the opposite end of the block from the restaurant. Stops. Leans against the wall of the skyscraper and pulls out his phone, just another guy waiting for a Lyft or texting or whatever.

There’s another buzz.

_Getting the check._

Wade lets the certainty of doing a job settle over him. It’s not calm, but it _is_ purpose, knowing what’s expected of you and that the only way you’re getting out is to get through it. It’s only an echo of what it used to be like, in what feels like a lifetime ago, when he was still special forces. There’s less on the line these days, just bruises and bloody knuckles and grudges avenged instead of people dying.

The door to the restaurant swings smoothly open and Nate steps out onto the wide stretch of concrete sidewalk. He knows it’s Nate, even from a hundred feet away in the otherworldly light of headlights and streetlights, spectrum shifted and alien from artificial sources. The silhouette is all the right sense of purpose and bearing, looking more like the first time Wade met him with the leather jacket, holding the door open for a couple who follows after him. Wade sees light reflect off red hair.

Showtime. Enter Wade W. Wilson, stage right.

He pushes off the wall, slipping his phone into his back pocket. Adrenaline is surging high, he’s ticking through options and observations, figuring out his moves, his timing, how to play this, even as he hurries to follow them around the corner at 106th Avenue, closes the distance.

Nate is walking on the side of the sidewalk closer to traffic, talking to Hope and Emil. Wade thinks as he’s closing the distance that Hope exudes _presence_ like an aura. She’s gesturing, talking forcefully, and even though he can’t see her face, she’s broadcasting every emotion she has, while Emil walks next to her with his hands in his pockets and no flicker of body language, so put together and carefully styled in shades of gray and lighter gray that he looks more like a store mannequin than a person. (Although the mannequin thing might also be the completely shaved head--isn’t that kind of out of fashion?) The kid’s like the _absence_ of an aura.

Sure, opposites attract, but some opposites just look painfully incompatible.

He’s starting to see why Nate hates having this guy dating Hope.

And then he’s shouldering between Nate and the kids. “‘Scuse me, _grandpa_ ,” he sneers at Nate, but also winks so only Nate can see it, head lagging the turn in his body so he can watch Nate’s reaction.

Nate’s outraged expression nearly makes him break cover with a laugh, but instead he pivots to the other two, shoves himself right in front of Hope.

It’s the first time he’s seen her face in something other than a photo. Cute kid, no doubt about it, or he supposes ‘cute young lady,’ but at the point he knows she’s Nate’s daughter, there’s no way he’s ever going to be able to think of her as anything but ‘kid,’ whether or not she’s got a nice figure. He doesn’t really see Nate in her face, but he figures plenty of people don’t look like one of their parents.

She jerks to a stop, so he presses forward and she takes a reflexive step back.

“Hi there, cutie,” he slurs, and feels bad even as he’s saying it, watching disgust bloom on her face. “Whatcha say you ditch these two and come out with me. I can show you a good time,” and he tries a wink, hoping this is gross enough to be realistic, “not like these guys.”

“Ugh, no!” she snaps, already bringing her hands up in a self-defense position. “Get away from me, you creep!”

He hears the kid say, “Wait! Stop!” behind him, but figures it’s worth ignoring him a little longer.

“Come on,” he grins, taking another step toward her. “You, me, hit the town, have some fun?” He justifies to himself that he’d probably just take her bowling and buy her a beer if she said yes, so ‘fun’ isn’t as gross as he’s trying to sound. He reaches to try to grab her wrist.

She knocks his hand aside and chops at his neck so fast he barely has time to block, block again, and back away hurriedly because wow.

She comes after him. Wade grins, feints, feints again, then tries a punch that she very expertly knocks aside, weaves back and forth as Hope glares at him, eyes darting, obviously watching for an opening. He’s aware that there’s yelling, commotion, passersby rapidly forming a ragged, rough circle around them, yells of encouragement or consternation, pulling out phones. This needs to end quickly before he ends up on ten different live streams. He’s vaguely remembering that he’s supposed to have a different goal right now, but damn if Nate’s kid isn’t _fun_ like he never expected and that’s the immediate thought now with his hands in fists and the blood rushing in his ears. Also, the glare, now he sees Nate in her, in that expression, the narrowed eyes, the concentration. He feints yet again followed by another punch, only this time she’s moving fast into his space and his arm is knocked aside by her palm while her elbow is heading straight for his nose.

It’s the same damn one-handed move Nate had pulled on him, not even needing to use her second arm to get inside his space.

He yelps and twists backwards, hits the ground and rolls, pretty sure he’s barely missed having his nose broken.

“Oh my god, who taught you how to fight, your dad?” he yells indignantly, rolling to his feet, already in a crouch.

“Damn right I did!” Nate shouts from the sidelines.

Hope’s eyes are still narrowed, but there’s a thin smile on her face. A bit of her hair is falling in her face but ignored. She’s focused on him, undeterred, although she snorts in amusement at his outrage.

“Yeah, fuck him up, sister!” a female voice yells from the sidelines.

And then Emil shoves himself in front of Hope, arms outstretched like a sacrificial human shield, just begging to be punched in the gut and kicked in the ‘nads.

Wade’s pretty sure his disappointed look is an exact mirror of the one on Hope’s face. A portion of the crowd groans theatrically while other parts yell encouragement. Darn. He’d been having fun.

“Hope, get behind me, I won’t let him hurt you!” Emil shouts earnestly.

Wade’s jaw sags and he blinks. Blinks again. He registers that Nate makes a increduous nose as he keeps staring at the kid, and he agrees because is anyone other than him really this dumb? 

“Really? _Really_? What the _hell_ , kid! What are you doing? Didn’t you _see_ her?” Wade gestures wildly toward Hope. “She nearly broke my nose, she is going to beat me up way better than you. I could smear your face all over this sidewalk in about two seconds! She doesn’t need your help!”

“I won’t let you hurt her! It’s my duty to protect her!” he insists, still just as stupidly earnest, arms still spread. Wade entertains the thought of punching him in the gut, watching his mouth gape helplessly as he struggles for breath that won’t come for long moments. But no, that’s not what he’s being paid for.

Wait. What is he being paid for?

_**You were supposed to get him to do something stupid. Like he just did.** _

Oh. Nice.

But still. The stupidity of this guy boggles Wade’s mind, and his mind is not usually boggle-able. But this is just asinine. Why is this kid standing there, ignoring that the real world exists and instead living some kind of fantasy where he’s Prince Charming and he needs to rescue his helpless princess?

“What the hell kind of male idiot are you to not see how capable she is?” Wade fumes at him. Then he suddenly remembers there’s a second party complicit in this. “You!” he exclaims, swinging his focus back to the redhead behind Emil's shoulder. “What the hell are you doing hanging around with this loser who doesn’t appreciate how badass you are?! I mean, honestly you’re too young for me, even if you’re smoking hot--”

“Hey!” Nate yells warningly.

“--but if I were dating you, I wouldn’t be trying to fight your battles for you! Come on, I’m just some loser and I can see how much butt you kick!” He shakes his finger at her theatrically. “You deserve better, young lady! Someone who respects you!”

He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears some kind of strangled noise from Nate. Hard to tell with the crowd hooting and yelling, mostly in agreement.

He shakes his head like shaking off a bad dream. Takes a step back.

“No. No way. I’m not getting involved with this. No way in hell. Have a nice evening, sweetheart.” He turns away, heads toward the ring of humanity that hurriedly parts for him. “And find yourself someone who appreciates you!” he yells over his shoulder, then keeps on walking.

A siren starts up a couple blocks away.

Shit.

He starts running. He hears an outraged shout of “Dad!” behind him, fainter with distance and muffled by cars and humanity and the swell of sirens, but he ignores it and just runs faster.


	6. Thank You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are back at E-rated content. :3

Nate isn’t a big romantic. At this point in his life he’s old, he’s jaded, he’s seen a lot of death, including the death of those he loves. His rose-colored glasses got permanently broken a long time ago. Romance is a fanciful idea for younger people with too little sense and too many emotions, not for him. He’s quietly resigned to liking people, to maybe sleeping with them, but having it all be arm's length. A transaction, a carefully managed relationship. Nothing that’s going to be dangerous, nothing that’s going to go deeper. Nothing that’s going to hurt.

But if nothing can hurt him because he’s very carefully holding it away from him, taking only a little bit from the relationship, giving only a little bit in return, that also means it’s not going to make his heart beat fast, make his mouth go dry. No butterflies. No head over heels. Nothing passionate. Nothing dangerous. Does he miss it? Sure, in some ways, he misses the high. But he doesn’t miss the lows. It’s safer this way.

He can’t remember the last time he was aching to shove someone up against a wall and kiss them senseless.

Watching his hired shit-disturber giving a ranting, hand-waving, finger-wagging dad-lecture to Hope about how she deserves someone who will appreciate her is making him want to do exactly that.

He wants this guy. Wants to get his hands on him, feel him against his skin, do something about the ache of desire. Wants to show Wade _exactly_ how much he approves of that lecture, show him his gratitude in a very _physical_ way.

So when Wade turns and starts walking away, uphill, he stares after him in shock, then quickly turns his head to check on Hope and Emil. The kid is checking on Hope, who for her part has such a look of shock and outrage on her face that just this once he can’t honestly blame the kid for being solicitous. He _can_ blame him for acting like Hope needs him to hold her and have her lean on him, like he expects she’s going to be some fainting damsel.

“Okay, yeah, let’s get back to the car,” she mutters, looping an arm around Emil’s waist.

A siren starts up a couple blocks away. Nate’s head whips back toward where Wade is disappearing, and he sees him take off fast, full sprint. Looks back to Emil coaxing Hope down the hill. Takes off running up the hill himself.

“Dad!” Hope yells behind him, but he ignores her. He knows she’s perfectly capable, she’ll be fine.

Wade dives across the street a dozen feet before the crosswalk, taking a slanting path to the other side when the oncoming traffic is still stopping on a yellow. Several tires squeal reproachfully. Nate gets to the crosswalk tens of seconds later, as the hand is starting to flash disapproval of walking to any pedestrians.

Walk is heading downhill ahead of him, and Nate puts on speed, trying to catch up.

The tall figure ducks into a small walkway, one of the narrow plazas and shrub-lined areas between buildings. Nate draws up to it just in time to see a shape turn left, back around the edge of the building.

“Wade!” he shouts, pounds after him.

He thinks Wade didn’t hear him, but then the figure pops back out from around the corner of the building, starts to disappear again, then hesitates as he races up.

“What the hell? Why are you following me?!”

“This way,” Nate says curtly, grabbing Wade’s wrist with his good hand, tugging him to the right instead.

“What?! Naaaaate, what are you doing?” is whined behind him.

He doesn’t really expect Wade to go easily, and he does put up some resistance, tugging back against the pull Nate’s exerting, but it’s obviously token resistance because it doesn’t really stop him or slow them down. Instead Wade follows him, up some broad steps set with small lights under the lip of the steps, nighttime illumination for passing feet. This is a plaza behind the building, a nice place where office workers can hang out during the day, take a break, eat their lunch. One way in and out. There are islands of planters with trees and shrubs and flowers separated by seas of concrete and benches and little tables. It’s all very tidy, and current deserted.

Nate happens to know there’s an alcove, back behind everything, hidden by walls and shrubbery, where a latched metal gate separates the pretty, manicured fantasy of the plaza from the reality of recycling dumpsters.

He drags Wade into the space, whirls him around, switches his grip to the front of that frayed, worn hoodie, and pushes him up against the wall with a satisfying _whump_.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Natey, what’s up?” Wade has his hands up, palms out, spread placatingly. He’s not trying to lash out or get away, he looks confused and worried. “I mean, I’m really sorry I went off script. I wasn’t supposed to fight her, was I?”

“It’s fine. Told you you couldn’t hurt her,” Nate says, keeping his grip fisted in the front of that sweatshirt. One of his fists is prosthetic, he knows his grip is tight on the material, but there’s no feedback from his fingers, just the pressure on his upper arm telling him how hard he’s pushing. The other though … that hand is flesh and blood, and he feels the warmth of another body through the shirt, feels the cotton under his fingers, feels Wade’s chest rising and falling with rapid breath from his run. Nate licks his lips.

Wade’s eyes dart downward, staring mesmerized at Nate’s tongue.

“I-- I-- Is it because I yelled at her? That was off script too. Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to upset y--”

Nate jerks him down and shuts him up with a kiss. Wade responds instantly, grabbing at Nate’s shoulders, groaning against his mouth, so Nate plasters himself against Wade, pressing him into the wall.

He feels desperate and needy and out-of-control horny, a way he hasn’t felt in decades. He shoves his flesh-and-blood hand up under Wade’s sweatshirt, under the t-shirt he finds underneath, just so he can feel the skin on Wade’s side. It’s puckered and ridged and quivers under his touch, Wade gasping into his mouth.

Wade is quick to respond, enthusiastic. One hand drops to Nate’s waist, pulling him closer, grinding them together. He can feel the firmness of Wade’s dick through his pants; he’s sure Wade can feel the same, because this is turning him on so damn much. The other one of Wade’s hands is shifting, toying with the short hair on the back of his head before flitting away to squeeze at muscles in chest and arm and shoulder, then slide down his back. Wade’s eager but accepting, dealing with all the aggression Nate is pouring into the kiss, shoving his hand further up Wade’s shirt so he can feel the play of muscles over ribs, rubbing his dick so hard against the taller man that it’s almost painful. Wade just moans into the kiss and makes enthusiastic vocalizations, hums, near-purrs through it all. Apparently his inability to shut up applies even when he can’t talk.

He’s not sure when the last time was that something felt so goddamn good as kissing this punk senseless against a wall near a bunch of trash cans.

He finally breaks the kiss, trying to lean back just enough to get his hand free. Wade doesn’t make it easy, clinging like he’s afraid Nate’s going to step away. Well, that and the hand that _had_ been on his waist is now sliding down to his ass for a curious squeeze. Nate snorts in amusement, but is able to get into his inner jacket pocket, pull out a thin billfold. He flips it open and pulls out the cash, plus another item he’d put in there in case he needed it, which he palms.

“Here. Five hundred sixty. For you. Paid in full.”

Wade’s hands and face still. Does he look a bit crest-fallen?

“Is that why you ran after me?” he asks cautiously, taking the cash with the non-groping hand and glancing at it cursorily before shoving it in a back pocket.

“No, dipshit,” Nate growls in exasperation. He slides the wallet back into his pocket, then pulls himself back against Wade, prosthetic hand carefully fisting the front of the worn hoodie while his other hand slips fingers under the edge of Wade's waistband. He feels warm skin under his fingers, feels the dip of muscle next to the hardness of a hip. He leans in, lips brushing over Wade’s. It’s a tease, the other opening enthusiastically, trying to lean into a kiss that Nate pulls back from, chuckles at the frustrated whine of “Naaaate” that he gets. He leans back in, growls nearly against the other’s lips, “I ran after you because--”

He hesitates.

_Because that was amazing._

_Because that’s everything I’ve wanted to rant at Hope but haven’t dared. Coming from me it would just have driven her to do something stupid._

_Because I want to make sure you don’t disappear._

“--because I wanted to say thank you. And because I'm going to suck your dick, if you want.”

Wade gasps, hips twitching forward like he hasn’t the slightest control over it, grasping at Nate’s ass with both hands now to shamelessly grind them together.

Nate chuckles, enjoying the sight and feel of Wade so absolutely horny for what’s being offered. He slides his hand toward the back of Wade’s pants, letting his fingertips savor the hotness of Wade’s skin, the play of muscle and the curve of the top of his ass, as he asks with mock sweetness, “So is that a yes?”

“Usually the person who gives the money is the one asking for the blowjob. You’re doing a really bad job at this soliciting-a-prostitute thing,” Wade gasps, but the way his pupils are blown wide, the strain in his voice, and how hard his dick feels against Nate betrays how much he’s into this.

Nate rolls his eyes, backs off enough to get his hands on the front of Wade’s pants. He pops the button on Wade’s jeans, pulls the zipper down, then squats. He’s not trying so much for sexy as at least halfway dignified. He goes down at a speed that’s hopefully not too fast and desperate, but also not too slow and showing his age, although he winces thinking how much his knees are going to be complaining soon. But in no way does he want to rub his good pant legs on concrete or deal with the hell it would play with his knees.

He looks up, takes a really good look at Wade staring down at him. He leans in to where Wade is rock hard, tenting his boxers, puts his mouth on the thick line of cock that’s straining the red cotton.

“Oh fuck,” Wade whimpers above him.

He looks up again, mouths at Wade’s dick through thin cotton, watches the way the other is staring open-mouthed. He looks thunderstruck.

“Hey, asshole. Can I suck your dick?” Nate asks again, cocking an eyebrow in amusement.

Wade swallows. Nods sharply. “Yeah. Yes. Hell yes.” One hand is splayed flat on the wall, the other curls around the back of Nate’s head, although it feels more like Wade wants to touch something than an attempt at control.

Nate grins, sharp and eager, and licks from the bottom of Wade’s open fly all the way up to right below the small wet spot that’s forming on the front of his boxers. Mouths there, lets the smell of Wade waft up to his nose. It’s a salty, sweaty funk, and civilized standards say it shouldn’t smell good, but it smells _amazing_ , like another man, apparently like Wade. Nate takes a moment to fumble his own fly open, shove his boxers down to get his dick out in his hand, because he’s so hard that his pants are painful.

Then he does the same to Wade, tugging the waistband down, tugging at the jeans to get them to ride an inch lower, pulling Wade’s cock out so he can admire it up close. Yes, even here Wade is scarred, ripples of texture under his hand, but Nate doesn't care. Wade's cock is uncut, head peeking out of the foreskin, slit wet and slightly deeper flushed than the rest of his cock, and Nate’s mouth is watering, wanting to take the head of it in his mouth, wanting to feel it slide hard and smooth over his tongue, wanting to hear Wade beg for it.

He feels pretty certain he could make Wade beg, given the short, rapid breaths, the almost spasmodic twitching of the hand at the back of his head, the transfixed look on Wade’s face when he glances up again.

“Sorry,” he says, flicking the condom in its little square wrapper to where it’s visible between first and middle finger, “I have no idea where you’ve been.”

“No offense taken,” Wade breathes, “I wouldn’t want to stick my dick in my mouth either.”

Nate snorts. Then he rips the packet open with his teeth, fishes the condom out with one hand and gets it on the head of Wade’s cock. Rolls it down with short rocking motions and hears Wade hiss and feels him twitch under his hand.

“Baby,” he purrs, “I would _love_ to stick your dick in my mouth, but I don’t do that without a clean bill of health.”

“Fuck!” Wade gasps. “Mother _fucker_ , don’t say shit like that!” Then again, as Nate slides his mouth over the head of his cock, _“Fuck!”_

The taste of latex is extremely sub-par and his leg muscles are already complaining, but Nate tries to ignore it and concentrates on feel and sound instead. He gets his prosthetic arm up, lets the hand rest on Wade’s thigh, curled slightly to match the curve of flesh, holding him back against the wall, and then his flesh hand is free to strip his own cock in time to what he’s doing to Wade’s. Flicks his eyes up to watch in amusement, sucks with enthusiasm so he can see Wade bite his lip, thump his head back into the concrete and curse.

It’s not the right angle to go deep and he doesn’t have a hand free to help, but just his mouth seems to be working for Wade. He’s swaying his hips forward into the motion of Nate’s mouth, giving the smallest of guiding pushes at the back of Nate’s head, and making all the noises a man makes when he is _extremely_ satisfied with the head he’s getting, and as Nate keeps working the noises get higher pitched, more desperate, obviously barreling straight toward orgasm.

Nate is not the least bit surprised when Wade goes first again, dick swelling on Nate’s tongue, moaning and fingers spasming on the back of Nate’s short-cropped scalp, and then cock twitching repeatedly as he shoots his load.

Nate lets Wade’s cock pop out of his mouth as he leans back, bracing on the ground behind him with one hand, strips his cock fast and furious while he takes in the debauched picture Wade makes: dick out, sheathed in the condom, and shiny with spit, hands now both on the wall behind him like he needs it to be able to stand up, and eyes fixed on Nate like it’s the most mind-blowing thing he’s ever seen.

It doesn’t take Nate more than a few seconds until pleasure crests and he’s shooting his load on the ground between Wade’s feet, splatters of translucent white on pale gray.

He strokes himself through it to the last tremors, pleasure a warm, hazy feeling spreading through his body, then lets his cock go. Grabs onto Wade’s thigh to help haul himself to his feet, grimacing at just how his legs protest--he hates to admit, he's getting older.

Wade grabs him by his jacket and hauls him up the rest of the way, yanks him into a kiss, sloppy and uncoordinated.

His lips have barely left Nate’s when he says, “Okay, that’s the best tip anyone’s ever given me. Like … _ever.”_

“Technically, I think I was the one who got the tip,” Nate smirks, and then smirks more when Wade groans theatrically.

“Was that dad humor?”

“Probably,” Nate admits.

“Kind dirty for dad humor, wasn’t it?”

“My kid’s an adult, it’s allowed.”

Wade sighs a happy sounding sigh and kisses him again.

When he lets go, he makes a face.

“Ew. Condom breath.”

“Don’t complain when you got off,” Nate says shortly, shoving his dick back into his boxers, adjusting, and zipping up his pants, a little disappointed that he can’t just linger in the afterglow.

“So if you don’t suck cock on a first date, does that make this a second date or third date?” Wade asks, making absolutely no move to stop leaning against the wall with his dick out.

Nate squints at him. He finally remembers he’d said that almost a week ago, and he’s kind of impressed Wade remembered, although it’s unclear if Wade is trying to make a joke or if he’s serious.

“Because if it’s a third date, it’s kind of a shitty one so far. Aside from the oral, don’t get me wrong, that was spectacular. But so far I nearly got punched by your daughter and I sat around a bus stop for hours while you probably ate a meal that cost more than my food for a week. That is _not_ how you show a girl a good time, Natey baby.”

Nate sighs. “Do you want to go get something to eat? My treat.”

Wade gasps theatrically. “Oh my God, he knows how to take direction!”

Nate sighs and shakes his head, although there’s a slight smile twisting at his lips despite himself.

He asks, “Do you want to go somewhere fancy, or is The Pumphouse more your style?”

The gasp this time is slightly less theatrical, slightly more sincere. “You actually have a soul! Pumphouse!”

Nate nods, pulls his phone out and is calling for an uber without a second thought.


	7. Condo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mood song for the first part of this chapter is _Problems_ by Mother Mother, then _Xcess (Remixed by Schneider)_ by Slick Idiot for the second part because I am a thirsty bastard.
> 
> There might be body horror issues here for some people? Maybe? Read cautiously when we hit the bathroom/bedroom scene if amputation and a need for prosthetic devices bothers you.

Wade still isn’t sure why Hot Daddy decided to chase him. Even less idea why Nate would want to kiss him until he couldn’t think and then suck his sanity out through his dick. And as for casually calling an uber and zipping them both away to the other side of the freeway to the decades-old, solid presence of The Pumphouse Bar & Grill? He’s considering temporary insanity on Nate’s part as the only explanation.

All he knows for sure is that he has an open-faced chili burger nearly overflowing the plain white china plate in front of him, a glass of Mac & Jack’s in hand, and Nate sitting across from him with a vaguely amused expression and his own glass of Coors Light.

Wade is not going to let him live down the Coors Light. First tofurizo. Now bad domestic beer. Nate deserves all the teasing Wade can manage.

“They have ale. They have amber. They have IPA. They have lager. They have blonde. They have _Guiness_ if you’re into cutting your beer with a knife. _And you got a Coors Light?_ ”

Nate shrugs and sips his soulless corporate American pisswater. “And you got a monstrosity of beef, chili, and onions. What’s your point?”

“I’m supporting small business,” Wade says dismissively. “This place is one-of-a-kind, homegrown, run by real people. And where else in Bellevue are you going to get _real_ food like this?” He grabs his knife and fork and goes to town on the burger. Or rather, the burger buried under a sea of toppings, giant chunks of onion and melting strands of cheese festooning the chili. Not classy, but _so_ delicious. “Mmmmm, that’s so good,” he groans around a mouthful.

“Careful,” Nate says, eyes crinkling mischievously over the edge of his glass, “you’re going to make me jealous.”

“What, jealous of the other all-American beef I have my eye on?” Wade teases, shoveling another huge bite into his mouth.

“Pretty much. Also, fearing what your breath and guts are going to do later.”

That stops him midway through chewing a bite as he considers the statement. Slowly finishes the bite and swallows.

“You’re not going to be around later to find out. Are you?”

Nate shrugs, leaning back in his plain, beat-up wooden chair. It’s a relaxed slouch, as easily in his element here among closely packed tables and under the glow of a sports-showing big-screen as Wade is sure he was on the other side of town in the Purple with a glass of wine in his hand. He shifts and his knee brushes Wade’s under the table.

“I was serious when I said next time there could be a bed involved,” he says casually. “Didn’t expect earlier to happen first. If you want to come back to my place after this, offer’s open.”

Wade stares. Then very carefully sets down his fork and knife on either side of his plate.

“Alright. What gives?”

“What do you mean?” Nate says, looking genuinely confused.

“What’s in it for you?”

“What kind of question is that?” Nate frowns, eyebrows pulling together in an affronted look.

“A very _reasonable_ question,” Wade says flatly. “You’re too fucking good to be true and I don’t understand why you’re doing …” he waves helplessly, maybe meaning the Pumphouse’s noisy bar vibe, maybe meaning the two of them, “... _this_. It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“Ah.” Nate leans toward him and takes another swig of his drink. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I see what you mean. You’re not my usual type, gotta admit. It’s a miracle we met and it’s a bigger miracle we clicked.”

“Clicked?” Wade says blankly.

Nate raises an eyebrow. “You telling me this doesn’t feel different to you? That this is normal? Do you always go around meeting people that…” He seems to struggle to find words. Takes another sip of his drink. “That you’d happily fight with, eat with, fuck with? Have it feel this easy?”

Wade snorts. “I fuck with people all the time. Professionally.”

“You know what I mean,” Nate snorts. “I like you, asshole. Kinda curious to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

“I cannot believe that it was you, not me, that brought up holes and how deep they are,” Wade deadpans. “You horny bastard.”

“Jesus,” Nate mutters, scrubbing his hand over his face, but not quite managing to hide a smile.

Wade picks up his silverware again and resumes shoveling food into his mouth.

“Okay,” he says, mouth full, “assuming I believe you and this is just a weird case of I like you, you like me, and not some sort of weird-ass kink thing…” He pauses and considers. “You know what, scratch that, even if it _is_ some sort of weird-ass kink, there’s no way in hell this goes anywhere serious.”

“Why not?” Nate asks mildly, like it’s a totally reasonable question and not the most stupid thing ever said.

“Because you have money and I don’t,” Wade says flatly. Might as well pull this band-aid off quick. If it’s going to blow everything up, then do it quick and end this whatever-it-is before it starts.

Nate blinks and he’s either doing a great impression of being totally confused or he actually is. “Why should that matter?”

“Hello? I can’t afford your life? And you don’t want mine? And I’m not trying to find a rich Daddy to pay me off and buy me clothes and fuck me when he feels like it.”

Wow. That is a shade of embarrassed red that Wade didn’t know Nate could turn.

“No, Jesus, do you think I’m trying to-- I’m not-- The hell, Wade!” he splutters.

“So far you’ve done two of the three,” Wade points out cheekily.

“I have-- I haven’t-- _Not like that!”_

Wade squints at him and sips his beer as Nate very hurriedly chugs half of his in one go. “So you’re telling me this is all … what? Something you’re doing just because you like me, not using your money to get what you want?”

“I have money,” Nate snaps, “I can’t _not_ have it. What do you want me to do-- _not_ use it on things I want? I’m not trying to buy you, but I will spend money on you if I feel like it. No strings attached. You can tell me thanks for dinner and fuck off, that’s fine. But I’d really like it if you came back to my place.”

His eyes are locked on Wade as he says it, staring straight at him. No flicks of his gaze to the side. No fidgeting. Every bit of body language radiating flustered sincerity.

And Wade is really struggling, because he wants to be mad, to keep this guy at a distance, but he also wants to believe him. And the only word he can find to describe the drunk little blush on Nate’s cheeks is ‘adorable.’

He leans forward to squint accusingly. “You sure this isn’t beer goggles talking?”

“Wade! I brought it up _before_ I drank this!”

“Hn.” Wade sits back, eyes still narrowed.

_Maybe he’s nuts too._

Maybe, but he also seems sincere. Most likely Nate’s kidding himself, so caught up in rich person bullshit that he doesn’t even realize how ingrained it is. So even if he _thinks_ it’s not going to be a problem, it’s going to be a problem. If Wade goes along with this, it’s going to be knowing he’s going to end up hurt or hurting someone in the end.

Chances are Nate’s going to get tired of him or figure out he’s a few cards short of a full deck and ghost him. He _knows_ he’s not the desirable one in this not-relationship. So he’s not putting Nate at any risk. He’s the one who’s going to end up in pain.

_**So, pretty standard.** _

He lifts a hand, flagging down a server that’s passing. “Hey, could I have this in a box and the check?” he says brightly, and drains his beer.

Nate hurriedly does the same, and pulls out his phone. He pauses for a moment, taps out something, then does a few more swipes and shoves it in his pocket.

“An uber should be out front in a couple minutes,” he says, pulling out his wallet. As soon as the box and the check arrive he drops two twenties on the table and stands up, waiting for Wade to stuff a few more bites of his chili burger into his face and then dump the rest into the box before they head for the door.

It’s a short ride back to downtown, but tenser than it should be. He thinks Nate is trying to play it cool and calm, not say much, but all it does is translate to tense and uncomfortable in Wade’s head. So of course he talks, about everything but with absolutely no meaning, covering swelling unease with snarking with the driver about everything while Nate sits quietly. Then they’re getting out of the car in front of Bellevue Towers, sleek slabs of stone and metal and glass rising in a cohesive, modern, light gray design high above them.

The lobby is just as overly pretentious as Wade remembered and he mutters under his breath about capitalism and _eat the rich_ the whole way to the elevators.

Nate presses his wallet against the sensor in the elevator, then hits thirty-nine on the panel of little round buttons. It’s not the highest floor, but it nearly is.

“What, no penthouse?” Wade snipes grumpily.

Nate shrugs. “The view is just as good three floors down,” he says as Wade feels his stomach pressed gently toward his feet as the elevator smoothly accelerates to a high speed, hovers for a while, and then just as gently slows to a stop. With a gentle ding the doors open. “Didn’t see any point in paying more for a higher apartment number when this place suited my needs just fine.”

Nate leads the way to apartment 3910, unlocks the door, and then holds it open.

Wade steps inside gingerly, sneakers scuffing on hardwood in warm tones with dark grain as he makes his way down the short corridor with a couple doors opening to each side. Lights turn on as Nate does something behind him, and then he stops dead as he gets a good look at the main floor of the condo.

“Jesus,” Wade mutters.

The furniture is shades of gray and pure white, mostly leather, all modern and expensive-looking. The couch and the glass coffee table are regular rectangles, but the chairs are odd shapes and curves and proportions like Picasso made love to geometric shapes and had bastard chair babies with them. The paint job is white, set off with the warm floor and the furniture and rugs and one wall of off-white tile with some black floating shelves and the entire end of the apartment in front of him is floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Bellevue is glittering in front of and below him, then there’s the dark glimmer of the lake, and far off he can see the skyline of Seattle twinkling in the night. There’s a gas fireplace to the left, a dining area and a kitchen behind and to the right with a massive gas cooktop and granite countertops that looks like the wet dream of a home remodelling magazine. There is artwork on the walls and an honest-to-fucking-god _statue_ in a corner.

It’s amazing, and the view is to die for, and Wade feels completely out of his league.

_**Yep, you found yourself a filthy rich daddy.** _

_Bet he wants to buy you a cute outfit and then fuck you against one of those big windows._

He tries not to turn red and resists the desire to hiss ‘shut up’ at his thoughts, keeps looking around.

Even worse than being a swank bachelor pad on the 39th floor is the fact that it’s a _clean,_ swank bachelor pad. There’s a tidy stack of file folders and envelopes on one end of the kitchen counter between the living and kitchen areas, as well as a sleek, closed laptop. But there’s no pile of dishes in the sink, no clothes thrown carelessly over a chair. He sees a couple books sitting in a stack on the coffee table, but there doesn’t even appear to be a TV in the main area.

_He’s a barbarian. How do you survive without a TV?!_

There are sounds behind him that he vaguely registers. Nate shutting the door, another door opening, some shuffling, the clink of hangers, door closing again. Nate pads softly up beside him, shoes gone, and swipes the leftovers box out of his hands. “Take your shoes off inside,” he says, heading around the counter into the kitchen and opening the fridge to place the box inside. Wade numbly notes there are a suspiciously large number of green and healthy looking things inside, as well as a lot of beer in the door. There’s a lot of bottled craft-looking stuff, but also Budweiser. In _cans_ no less.

_He’s like a secret redneck rich person._

“Want anything?” Nate asks, pausing with the fridge door open.

Wade shakes his head. No, if he’s going to make idiotic mistakes, he ought to at least make them mostly sober.

Nate nods. Closes the fridge. Opens a cupboard instead to reveal neat rows of clean, matching glasses. Two are pulled down and quickly filled, one slid across the counter and the other in Nate's hand.

“Drink the water, I don't want to deal with you with a headache tomorrow," he says, draining his glass. Then, "I’m going to get comfortable,” he announces, punctuated by the clink of the glass being set in the sink. “Make yourself at home,” he adds, padding off.

Wade snags the glass and drinks it in hurried gulps, because Nate has a point. Then he kicks his shoes off and leaves them lying messily at one side of the hallway as a sort of ‘fuck you’ to all this neatness. Finally he quietly follows Nate, because in no way can he make himself at home here.

_**You don’t belong here--** don’t belong here-- **don’t belong here--**_

The thought whispers in his head, over and over, for once not just a chatty statement and instead a refrain, repeating and overlapping singsong and nauseating. He tries to ignore it, but the problem is that it feels _true_. He _doesn’t_ belong in this kind of a place, the only thing drawing him here is Nate, who, for some reason, seems to want him here, as mismatched and out of place as his trashy thrift store couch would be if it was shoved into the middle of Nate’s high-priced living room.

The only thing in this whole affluent, immaculate apartment that puts him at ease in any way is Nate. Although even with Nate, the guy he thought he knew a little bit is now cast in a new light. Sure, he’d sat on concrete steps and eaten tacos with Wade, sighed in exasperation as Wade wouldn’t stay on topic and ate his chips, sucked him off like an borderline exhibitionist, and sat in a bar drinking cheap beer and saying crap like ‘I like you.’ That Nate had felt like a real guy.

But now there’s Nate _here_ , moving through this place like it’s _home_ , like it’s _normal_. He feels suddenly unattainable, almost frightening. That’s a level of discordant juxtaposition he can’t quite wrap his head around, incongruity making everything around him seem wrong and threatening. It’s creepy. Like clowns.

“Nate?” He sticks his head into the bedroom. Winces. It’s just as bad in here. The room is built with weird angles, obviously shoehorned into a corner of the skyscraper, weird angles and a goddamn _pillar_ in the corner of the room and proud of it. More white leather and now dark blue as well on the bedspread. There’s a _couch_ and more square feet than both his and Al’s bedrooms combined. And white carpet. _White._ The color of people who don't make messes and expect other people to do the same. Plus there are more huge windows floor to ceiling and not a curtain in sight. Shit. Nate’s apparently a rise-with-the-sun type.

_**Why are you attracted to a freak like this?** _

“In here,” Nate’s voice calls from further in. A second later he pads barefoot out of what looks like the ensuite bathroom. He’s stripped off his button-up shirt and is wearing only his jeans, and the resulting sea of tanned skin over well-defined muscles makes Wade’s mouth water. The switch from skin to black and gunmetal grey on the left side isn’t jarring, because Wade is well aware of Nate’s prosthetic arm, but it is certainly different to see it on display. Mostly it’s been hidden under jackets and shirts, just the black and metal fingers viewable, but now it’s all there to look at, artificial from the bicep downward.

“I’m going to take this off,” Nate says, adjusting the elbow angle of the prosthetic to hold it in front of him and flex the shining fingers. “Can’t sleep with it on and it can be kind of unwieldy in bed.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wade says, because it’s not his business to tell Nate what he wants to do with his arm.

But Nate seems to be hesitating over something. “Well, but first I need to use it for something and … well … hold on.” He turns and heads back into the bathroom and Wade strolls closer, curious.

Nate is doing something near his face, adjusting the elbow angle of his prosthetic and then slowly moving the fingers so he can hold his right eye further open, then reaching for the eye with his right hand. It’s a motion he’s seen from other people before and Wade has a moment where he thinks _oh, Nate wears contacts_ , before Nate digs his flesh fingers into the eye socket and pulls out his _eye_ and rinses it under the faucet, then drops it into a small, liquid-filled container, prosthetic hand holding the jar while he screws the lid on.

Wade is still gaping as Nate turns back to him with a rueful smile, holding up the tiny jar to swirl the eye, letting it drift and spin like the most bizarre snow globe ever.

“Sorry, I don’t usually do that around people, but I’m supposed to take it out and clean it once a day and it gets kind of goopy if I sleep in it.”

It’s not a round eye, not a ball, Wade sees now. More like a thick, fat contact lens, white body and light brown iris with tiny, life-like fake veins on the white. It looks weirdly more like a piece of gummy candy than a prosthetic or an eye now that it’s out of its socket.

“What …” He looks at Nate’s face and blinks. Instead of two light brown eyes he’s met by a rueful smile and only one brown eye. The other, the one crossed by scars, is almost entirely covered by a drooping eyelid, eye under it mostly cloudy white and obviously non-functional. “Oh! You didn’t have a concussion, you just have a fake eye!”

“It’s called a scleral shell, but yeah.”

Nate turns back into the bathroom to set the jar on the countertop and then does something to actually unscrew and pull his hand clean off the arm and set it in a holder on the countertop. Then he fiddles with where his arm joins together. With a twist of something, the whole thing comes off, and he carefully sets it on the countertop as well.

“The hand’s electric, gotta recharge it every night,” he says, turning back to Wade. Then he spreads his arms, or rather, makes a gesture like he is spreading both even if one side ends only in rounded, scarred flesh and a silver pin, mismatched eyes rueful and smile twisted bitterly. “So. This is what I’ve got. Still interested?”

There are moments where a person has a choice to make, where available options and outcomes are weighed, a decision is made while hoping for the best outcome that is available.

This is _not_ one of those moments. There is no choice here. Nate’s asking a rhetorical question as far as Wade is concerned. He crosses the distance between them, gets right in Nate’s space, hand around the back of Nate’s skull, short hair soft against his fingers, his palm.

Nate’s entire existence, his job, his home, it may make no sense to Wade, but _Nate_ makes sense. He feels right. This is Nate in brilliant, bare honesty, showing him exactly what he has to offer, what he’s missing and how he’s broken, not because he thinks he’s unworthy, but because he’s probably had enough people shoot him down over the arm or the eye that he’s giving Wade ample extra opportunity to turn tail and run.

And maybe he’s projecting, but Nate standing there in pieces, smiling in self-deprecation and maybe expecting truth to lead to pain but giving truth anyway … Sure, it’s dumb, because Wade’s seen Nate _naked_ already, he _knows_ about the arm, and the eye’s not a big deal to him, but Nate doesn’t necessarily know that. There’s strength in this confession that goes way beyond physical.

It’s one hell of a turn-on.

Wade says, “Yeah, I still want you, you hot bionic bastard,” and kisses him urgently.

Nate’s arm instantly snakes under Wade’s arm, grabbing onto his shoulder, fingers grasping and just as eager. It’s like the spark that lights a gasoline spill, blossoming hot and wild inside Wade, accepting Nate licking into his mouth while he lets his hands wander, feeling down the shifting muscles of Nate’s back, gripping his sides, grabbing his ass and squeezing in a way he’d usually expect to get smacked for. But no, there’s no restraint, no reluctance in Nate, no telling Wade to knock it off or slow down. There’s just feeling him gasp and hiss into the messy, hungry kiss.

“Bed!” Wade groans against Nate’s lips.

“Yeah,” Nate agrees breathlessly, short--

_Ha!_

\--and to the point as always, pushing Wade backward.

It’s an ungraceful thing, them stumbling out of the bathroom together. Nate squirms and leans, and Wade can’t figure out why, until he slaps a light switch to drop the room into relative darkness. Only relative though--the lamp on one of the nightstands is shedding a warm, dim light on the room.

It’s almost a _romantic_ light, Wade thinks distractedly, as he manages to turn Nate and push him backwards to flop onto the bed. Breathing hard, clothes rumpled, watching Wade with a sharp, hungry gaze, lit soft and intimate, it’s a look so good it makes Wade want to _do things._ He wants to pull this bastard apart, tell him how good he looks, take apart his perfect control, see who he really is with all his walls down, see what he looks like when he’s _gone_ and coming so hard he forgets his own name.

Which is odd, usually he isn’t a toppy kind of guy. He admits that about himself to himself, no matter how hard he tries to keep up a manly facade to the heteronormative world. When it comes down to it, it’s usually kind of fun to let go, let someone else call the shots.

_Especially if that someone is a growly silver fox._

Nate is watching him hungrily while undoing his pants button one-handed and then hurriedly dragging his zipper down and Wade follows suit. He wants to hurry, but yet he hesitates before pulling off his t-shirt and hoodie, tossing them, then undoing his pants and dropping them and his boxers too. He reminds himself, if Nate was gutsy enough to show him his physical damage, then he can deal with stripping in return. Not like Nate hasn’t already seen and touched it. But it still makes him feel uncomfortable.

Taking off pants one-handed seems to be slow going, if the way Nate is squirming and fighting one side and then the other is any indication, so Wade helps himself to Nate’s pant legs, pulling them down and off, then dragging Nate’s boxers down to his knees so he can admire Nate's cock. Boring-ass plain white boxers, he thinks, and makes a mental note to buy Nate something more interesting when he has a little spare cash … assuming Nate keeps him around that long and he ever has some spare cash.

Nate is wiggling and grumbling--“Damn it, take ‘em all the way off”--until the boxers are gone and then Wade flops on the bed between Nate’s deliciously muscular legs, grabs that beautiful, hard cock and licks it from base to tip and slides his mouth down over the shaft, all one smooth motion. “Fuck!” Nate gasps explosively, and hell yes, this is what Wade wanted, bobbing his head for a dozen strokes, feeling Nate heavy and perfect and hard in his mouth.

“Not being ungrateful,” Nate pants, “but condom?”

“Do _you_ have a clean bill of health?” Wade returns, between slurps along the shaft.

Nate groans. “Yeah, but haven’t shown it to you-- _shit!”_

Wade finishes that bit of suction and then laughs. “I’ll trust you,” he says, because self-preservation has never been his strong suit. “I want to taste this gorgeous thing.” And he slides his mouth over Nate’s cock again.

He plays with the edge of Nate’s cockhead with his tongue, slipping it in and out of his mouth with short, quick bobs of his head, then licking several more slow stripes up the underside of Nate’s cock to hear him curse and squirm and watch him spread his legs wider.

Nate’s got a nice set of balls, something Wade hadn’t really been able to properly appreciate the last time they’d both been naked, seeing as they’d only traded handjobs before. But the current access is great and he shifts so he can cup them in one hand while still holding Nate’s cock in the other hand. They’ve got a good weight, heavy in his palm, light dusting of hair. He’s lifting them, rolling them gently in his fingers while he lavishes attention on Nate’s frenulum, listening to all the great sounds Nate is making.

Finally Nate seems to lose patience with waiting for the main event. “Get up here _now!”_ he growls, hand scrabbling at the curve of Wade’s skull. Wade gives the underside of Nate’s penis a last slurp, then crawls up over Nate, gasping as Nate snakes his hand around Wade’s waist to yank him down flush against him.

This is amazing, his hips pressing over Nate’s, erections nudging hot and smooth against hip, against stomach, against each other. It feels like miles of warm, soft skin against his, the press of chest and hip and his legs, Nate snaking a leg between Wade’s to wrap around his calf, imperiously holding him down to grind against. There’s a little lurch of greater insecurity, because he can tell Nate’s skin is smooth and perfect, but he can feel how his catches, too ridged and bumpy, or slides too smooth where the shiniest scar tissue lies. Nate isn’t saying anything about it, but it still bothers Wade. He tries not to think about it. Focuses instead on the feel of _Nate._

Wade hadn’t appreciated how much he’d missed sex like this. He’s touch starved, sure, he knows he doesn’t exactly have a lot of people willing to hug him or even be close to him. There are exactly two, if he forces himself to be honest. Ellie, who loves him no matter what he looks like, and Al, who can’t see and won’t outright punch him if he decides to hug her. So is it any wonder if he’s a little touch starved? A simple hug from Ellie is great, but this goes infinitely far beyond that. This is touch and sex and _someone apparently wanting to touch him_ and it’s so good. So fucking amazing. He buries his face in the join of Nate’s neck and shoulder, afraid he’s going to tear up and not wanting Nate to see it, moaning at the sheer rush of sensation.

Nate smells like sweat and skin and, of all things, Old Spice.

He moans again, because Nate is now shamelessly groping his ass.

“Not trying to cause problems,” Wade says, trying not to be distracted by Nate’s fingers grabbing only inches from his hole and Nate’s mouth latching on hungrily to his bumpy skin, “but we never talked about who likes to top or bottom.”

"I'm vers," Nate says breathlessly in between biting and sucking his way up Wade's neck.

"Oh good, I'm so proud of you," Wade says with feeling as he grinds his hips in a mindless rhythm, cocks rubbing together, _everything_ rubbing together in one long, glorious, skin-on-skin ocean between knees and chest. He feels like he’s drowning in it, drowning in the feel of Nate against him. "None of those gender role stereotypes for you. Can I fuck you?"

"Yes. Condoms and lube in the nightstand," Nate gasps, raking fingernails down to press against the small of Wade’s back as he arches his hips into the friction.

That’s a goal that should be Wade’s highest priority, but it’s hard to think when this feels so amazing.

“Or I could just blow my load all over your stomach,” he muses breathlessly, grinding harder.

Nate snorts and smacks his ass hard enough that it stings, just the right mix of good and pain so that Wade gasps, then goes back to groping it. “Don’t be a dumbass. Hurry up and get your dick in a condom and in my ass.”

_Look at that power bottom daddy._

Wade whimpers.

**_You’re so totally fucked. You_ like _being ordered around._**

_Bet some other time he’d like to hold you down and ride you just right._

_**Or shove your face into a pillow and fuck you hard.** _

“Shutupshutupshutup,” Wade breathes in a rush, scrambling wildly on hands and knees toward the nightstand. His ignored dick is jutting rock hard between his thighs, begging for attention yet ignored. He yanks out a drawer to reveal a bottle of lube and a scattering of condoms, helping himself to the former and one of the latter.

Then he’s back to where Nate is splayed on the pillows, looking some kind of smug and relaxed, like he’s not totally desperate for this, like this is no big deal to him, except the stiffness and deeply flushed color of his cock clenched in his fist gives him away.

Wade settles himself between Nate’s legs, hurriedly opens the lube and squirts some all over his hand.

“What’s with the unflavored lube?” he jokes, rubbing it between his fingers to try to warm it up just a little bit. “Booooring. Let me get you chocolate or strawberry or caramel next time.” And then he silently curses himself, because that overstepping, is Nate going to freak out that he’d automatically assumed there’d be a next time?

But Nate just snorts, “Figures you’d like that stuff,” and oh thank god.

It’s a matter of a few moments longer before he’s slicking Nate up, and he feels a little bad, because he thinks maybe he ought to linger way longer, take this slower, take his time getting to know the other guy--or the other guy’s asshole, more accurately. But it’s so hard when he’s, well, so hard that he feels like he’s going to explode just from sliding his fingers into Nate.

He could blame how turned on he is on not having gotten laid in a truly depressingly long time. But truth is, while any interested warm body would have him ready to go, everything about the way Nate reacts, the noises he’s making, the way he squirms or grabs for purchase on the bed with one hand while bracing with his stump on the other side, the look of him muscled and solid and golden against the deep blue bedspread, the way he’s urging Wade on with a breathless, deep chant of “come on, come on,” … it’s all conspiring to drive Wade nearly insane with the want to bury himself balls deep in Nate as soon as possible.

The only thing holding him back is that Nate is _tight._

Tight enough to give Wade pause. Tight enough to squeeze his fingers together _hard,_ clenching even tighter and then relaxing as he plays with Nate’s hole. He scoots closer, letting his dick rub against the back of Nate’s thigh and ass, arm wrapped around Nate’s leg to hold him open as he fingerfucks him.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, burying two fingers knuckle deep and twisting them. “You’re like a vice, old man. You sure about this?”

“I’ll be fine, get in me already,” Nate grits out, then groans long and low as Wade finally finds the particular little spot he’d been searching for. It makes Wade grin like a maniac, and he rubs over it again and watches Nate’s dick twitch where it’s hard against his stomach. A drop of precum is beaded at the tip of that cock, and looking at it makes Wade want to lean down, lap it up, suck that gorgeous cock until Nate comes in his mouth and on his fingers.

Maybe he would, except Nate pants, “Hurry up!” and, really, who is Wade to turn down a desperate hot daddy in need of a thorough dicking down?

“Gonna file that plan for later,” he mutters, promising himself he’ll blow Nate in the near future-- _if_ he gets a chance, uncertainty murmurs--and opens a condom and rolls it down his dick, then grabs the lube again to slick up.

And then he’s shoving Nate’s knee back toward his chest, lining up, and pressing in. There’s resistance, pressure back that Wade doesn’t want to fight too hard against, doesn’t want it to hurt, and then Nate takes a deep breath, relaxes, and Wade sinks in.

“Fuck!” they both hiss.

It’s a broken, disjointed, glorious moment, focus narrowed so that all he can think about is points of contact, touch, sensation. He grabs behind Nate’s other knee, shoves him further back, further open, slides deeper and deeper. Nate’s hand is skittering across Wade’s hand, his arm, his face, back to Nate’s cock. Wade bottoms out and they both groan.

Wade starts to pull back but Nate hisses and clenches, “Wait, give me a minute."

So instead he leans forward and kisses Nate while Nate grabs the back of his head, authoritatively, possessively. Like he _wants_ to touch him. Nate’s tongue is wicked, invading and fucking Wade’s mouth about the same way Wade hopes to move his cock in Nate’s ass in a minute. He moans and starts rocking his hips, tiny thrusts in time with what Nate’s doing in his mouth, and he feels the breath as Nate gasps at it.

“Now?” Wade asks breathlessly against Nate’s lips.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Nate breathes. “You gonna fuck me good?”

Wade sits back on his heels as he considers the question, hands sliding down to Nate’s thighs, and takes a breath, takes a moment to _see_ , not just Nate, but the entirety. This big room with the big windows, the expensive furniture, the signs of money and class, city lights twinkling behind them, an entire city stretched out around them. And in the middle of it all, spread out on this bed, just for him, tight around his cock, is Nate.

Wade’s out of his element and out of his depth and he doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” he breathes, shifting back. “Yeah. God, you look so good. Gonna make you scream.”

Nate grins, all challenge. “Like to see you--” he starts, then cuts off with an explosive exhale as Wade shoves back in, drives into that tight heat, pulls back and does it again, and again, and again. And Nate's no pillow princess, no, he's rocking into it, hand grasping Wade's shoulder, really being _there_ for it. Sure, fucking feels gloriously good, buried all the way at the end of each thrust, but Nate working with him for it? That's what’s really doing it for Wade. That and Nate is making punched-out little huffs of breath every time Wade slams forward with his hips, buries every inch of dick that he can in Nate's tight ass. It's kind of an ego stroker, since Wade knows he’s not packing a huge monster or anything, but the way Nate is making those breathy, quick exhales and half voiced _ahs_ , it's enough to feel like he's some kind of sex god, like he’s really doing something special.

He shifts, hands fisting in the bedspread on either side of Nate, and shoves in harder, slap of skin on skin sharp and electric. Nate looks like he’s enjoying it rough. Still, best to double-check.

"You okay?" he pants.

Nate looks half gone, blissed out, but he's still watching Wade nonetheless with that one brown eye in a mismatched gaze, tracking his face.

He grins.

"I'm just peachy,” he purrs. “You going to be able to keep that up, handsome?"

"I can do your ass all night long," Wade promises as he shifts, digs in with the balls of his feet, and then grabs behind Nate’s knees and changes his technique. Less slide, more slam, more an exercise in seeing how much Nate can take.

The other man gasps, hand flying up to headboard, to brace himself, keep from slamming his _head_ into the headboard. That’s a good look too, Nate having to hold on because Wade’s fucking him so thoroughly and _oh shit_ he’s getting close already.

“Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts,” he mutters frantically, trying to _not_ focus on how fucking glorious Nate feels and looks. And tastes? He leans down in curiosity and licks across Nate’s chest, swirls his tongue around a nipple and _sucks_ and nearly loses his control at the strangled gasp it gets him.

“Fuck, shit, gimme a hand,” Nate pants and Wade glances down … at Nate’s straining cock … then up … at Nate using his only available hand to hold himself in place … and grins evilly.

He slows it down but makes it harder, thrusts to make sure they both feel every inch Wade has to give, and Nate looks so fucking gone right now, head tossed back, eye unfocused, a solid curve of muscle and hair and sweat all the way from where he’s wrapped around Wade up to his hand open and bracing, mouth open and panting little gusts of breath with every slam of Wade’s hips. Wade’s feels a sheen of sweat on his forehead, he knows he can’t keep this up forever, but--

“You look good," he pants. "Just like that. How 'bout I keep you like this forever?"

“Goddammit, you bastard,” Nate half swears, half groans, “I’m going to murder you, I’m so fucking close, jerk me off already.”

"You're cute when you're pissy," Wade giggles breathlessly, then starts laughing in earnest when Nate flat-out snarls at him. "No, wait, I was wrong, you're fucking adorable when you're pissy," he gasps, knowing he's almost done, he can't do much more of this, but damned if he's going to stop yet either.

"Fucking …. murder you …. going to tie you up and fuck you to death with your own broken feet!" Nate curses.

"Wow, Most Creative and Disturbing Threat Ever Award!" Wade gasps cheerfully in return, never pausing.

Nate takes a deep, shuddering breath and then his expression smooths, frustration giving way to something deliberately playful and smug, half lidded eyes and a breathy voice.

"Jesus," he breathes. " _Fine._ Guess I'm just going to have to come from your pretty cock while you fill me up."

And that’s it, Wade buries himself as deep as he can, stuffing Nate as full as he can--the grunt Nate gives sounds insufferably smug, and Wade hadn't known a grunt _could_ sound smug--shoving into Nate, bent over him so that all he can smell is Nate, feels the brush of Nate’s hair on his forehead, and holds there while he comes, vividly and luridly fantasizing about filling Nate’s ass with his cum.

Nate instantly takes advantage of the lack of driving movement, shoves between them to grab his cock and strips it wildly fast and comes a few seconds later, groaning and clenching around Wade so hard that it makes him whimper, a high, near-hysterical laughing thing as Nate's ass squeezes him so tight, clenches and releases in little fluttering waves as Nate stretches his orgasm out, milks it as long as possible.

And then it's stillness, Wade holding himself up somehow so he doesn't squish Nate, Wade panting, both sweaty, both utterly sated. Wade sags and then collapses half on top of Nate, still sprawled between his legs but to one side of his chest. The long, satisfied groan he gives feels like it comes from somewhere around the bottom of his soul, because _holy fuck_ that was perfect.

Eyes closed, he’s face down in the mattress, feeling Nate start to stir, feels the little wince in the body he has an arm flung across as Nate tugs them apart, hears a little hiss. Then there’s some shoving as he squirms, manages to get his leg out from under Wade. Wade really can’t bring himself to care enough to move except to tighten the hand and arm he has over Nate until the warm body against his leans away, and then he lifts his head quickly. Nate’s reaching toward the nightstand, snagging some tissues, which makes sense given the mess on his stomach and chest--Wade feels a wave of smug satisfaction that Nate’d come hard enough to shoot that far--and then wiping it up and tossing it off the bed toward where Wade assumes Nate must know there’s a trash can. But the worrying thing is that this looks a bit like Nate trying to get away, so Wade scoots after him, wrapping an arm and a leg around Nate like a clingy octopus, snuggling in against Nate’s side.

“Hey, baby. Was it as good for you as it was for me?" he slurs.

There’s an amused chuckle, and Nate settling back onto the mattress and then a very firm hand settles on the arm he has slung over Nate’s chest, fingers wrapping warm and snug around his forearm.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, “it was good. Still considering murdering you though.”

“Very _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ of you," Wade cheerfully replies. "Except they tried the murder _before_ the sex.” There’s an amused snort. “Should probably say though, I usually bottom, so, uh…"

“Good,” Nate chuckles. “Because if I don’t kill you, next time I’m going to hold you down and fuck you until you’re begging me to let you come.”

“Ooooo,” Wade breathes, “seems fair, I’d be down for that.” He scoots a little closer to rub his dick hornily against Nate’s hip, because the idea really _is_ turning him on even if he can’t get hard again yet … then grimacing when that reminds him he needs to get rid of the condom. He sits up--Nate makes a slightly affronted sound--and starts peeling the thing off. Nate helpfully holds out the tissue box and he wraps it and then tosses it in basically the same direction Nate had hucked his. The other sighs at the sound of tissue very clearly hitting the floor instead of the trash.

Then Wade hesitates, because he’s probably supposed to go, but all he really wants to do is snuggle back into Nate’s side where he can smell the warm, musky smell of sex and skin and sweat and go to sleep. But he should go. It’s a hookup, sure, he can understand Nate wanting a little post-sex cuddling, but it’s too much to expect Nate to want his hired thrower of hands to spend the night.

Except Nate says firmly and loudly, “Alexa, turn off the lights,” and the bedside table lamp winks off. Suddenly it’s nothing but the glittering light of the city flowing into the room, over the bed. A sea of light, a thousand shimmering lights from cars and windows and street lights and the orange-painted light pollution sky, and it's like they’re on a shore where the light laps through the window, spreads in ripples and shadows into the condo. “Get back here,” Nate says as he squirms to shove the covers down, slides his feet under them. Wade just stares at him, or rather at the darker outline against light sheets, until fingers settling around Wade’s wrist with a gentle tug, and, well, it makes no fucking sense whatsoever, but Wade isn’t going to leave if Nate is saying stay.

He’s snuggling back into Nate’s side a moment later, sliding his legs in and pulling the sheet and bedspread up to his waist. Nate’s chest is just as broad and solid and warm as before, gently rising and falling under his arm, and Nate’s hand on his arm is a solid presence.

His heart practically leaps into his throat as Nate makes a self-satisfied hum, deep bass, nearly a purr of contentment, and turns his head to nuzzle the top of Wade’s hairless head.

“Good night,” he says simply.

Wade’s really darn sure he’s going to lie awake all night nearly vibrating with a massive freak-out over how absolutely everything about this can go horribly wrong, but then he realizes he’s already dozing and then he’s out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may think I’m making up this eye stuff, but this is an actual, available cosmetic prosthetic device (scleral shell). My friend has one, and they have happily shown it to me sitting in its little nighttime jar. They’re an AWESOME person and I thank them for their help on this subject. <3 to you, friend, if you are reading this.
> 
> As for the choice to made Nate’s _right_ eye the dud one, that is because of _Cable & X-Force_, the one(s) where Nate has an eye patch. I guess the theory is the white, glowy eye was from his powers, the right ‘normal’ eye was actually the place where the TO originally entered his body and that eye was a dud during the time he was cured of the TO infection.
> 
>  _I am not making up this condo._ I used an actual, honest-to-goodness for-sale listing in Bellevue as inspiration/source material. The building exists. It has a pool, hot tub, gym, roof-top gardens, etc. and tops out at 42 floors iirc.
> 
> Oh, right. I haven’t mentioned it before, but this fic is grounded in the real world. These are all actual places and restaurants and buildings and streets in the greater Seattle, Washington area.
> 
> (Ironically, I started this fic _before_ we all went into quarantine, so it feels surreal to be writing about walking the streets unmasked, going to restaurants, going to bars, etc.)
> 
> Look at this amazing art by mutantapologist!!!!! <https://mutantapologist.tumblr.com/post/627703706008371200/nates-asking-a-rhetorical-question-as-far-as-wade>


	8. Busted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a veteran. I did my best addressing the topic respectfully and as realistically as I know how, but drop me a comment if you are in this group and have a specific problem with how I wrote it.

Nate wakes warm and lazy and satisfied. He's not a particularly deep sleeper when there's another person in bed with him, but considering that fact he feels surprisingly rested. He's certain that he ought to feel tired and irritable, that he ought to have woken fully far more often than he did, because he has vague half-dream memories of the night and they all involve Wade being a restless and clingy bed partner.

Usually that kind of behavior in a bedmate, male or female, would drive Nate to the couch after only a few hours. He has no idea why this was different, why Wade's movements, writhing closer in his sleep, or making sleepy noises of objection if Nate rolled over or changed sleeping position and then reattached himself like a persistent, two-armed octopus didn’t bring him fully awake and seeking distance.

But now here he is, still in bed, waking up as the sun is starting to reflect off the buildings outside, most _definitely_ being aggressively spooned, and feeling good about it.

He feels the warmth of Wade’s body behind him, the weight of the arm slung around him, the firmness of Wade’s morning wood. It’s unexpectedly nice, makes him want to laze in bed longer, ignore responsibility for a little while.

He squirms a little, shifts onto his back so that he can see the other’s face, then stills. Wade's eyebrows crease and he mutters something in his sleep, maybe about bees, but the rhythm of his breath never changes. He has his face shoved into the pillow next to Nate’s head, an arm flung over Nate’s chest under the comforter and sheet, and one of his legs is tangled up with Nate's. His lips and cheek are smooshed against the pillowcase, eyes closed, face slack. He looks idiotic, Nate thinks, but instead of feeling any rancor or distaste, there's a certain exasperated fondness.

He studies Wade’s face thoughtfully. He hasn't indulged his curiosity to blatantly stare while Wade is awake, because the other seems highly sensitive about the damage he’s suffered, but right now Wade isn’t conscious to be finicky and Nate is going to look his fill.

He knows Wade must have looked some other way once upon a time, but he was never around to see it and so it’s meaningless to him. As he is now, Nate lets his eyes sweep over the high line of cheekbones, the straight line of a nose, the curve of ears. All of them are rippled, distorted, marred by scar tissue, the edges of Wade’s ears are pitted, as are the edge of his nostrils, but the facial structure underneath all that damage is still clear. Well balanced. Handsome face with mottled and rippling skin, both horrifying and handsome in its own way.

Nate’s gaze sweeps lower. There’s an irregular amount of scarring on Wade’s hands, arms, torso, ropey twists and mottled blotches that make his skin unmistakably his. Some places it looks like he must have been wearing something that caught fire and burned, producing more scar tissue. Or maybe he wasn’t wearing anything there and those places were more exposed? Nate isn’t sure; he figures he’ll ask someday. Wade’s torso seems to have been more protected, in a less-scarred pattern of skin that looks suspiciously the same shape as a tac vest or body armor. Further down is currently hidden by the bed coverings, but Nate knows that it follows a similar pattern as Wade's arms.

He could spend a very long time looking his fill, except that the needs of the body are calling. He carefully extracts himself from Wade's grasp, scooting toward the edge of the bed. A surprised breath hisses through his teeth as he realizes he’s _sore_. Luckily Wade still doesn't wake, although he does stretch in his sleep, arm reaching restlessly into the warm space of sheets and comforter where Nate had laid moments before, a grimace crossing his sleeping face as his hand closes on a fistful of rumpled sheets.

Nate moves away quietly, closing the door of the bathroom behind him with a soft click.

He doesn't linger, just makes quick work of the toilet and an efficient, thorough shower and brushing his teeth and putting himself back together. When he emerges, not bothering with clothes quite yet, Wade has shifted into the spot Nate had left behind, bed covers pulled over and around him in a massive fabric cocoon that hides all sight of him except for the end of his nose peeking out of a little dip of fabric.

Nate snorts quietly in amusement and pads out to the kitchen--still naked--to get some coffee.

Coffee is one of Nate's guiltier pleasures. Just like most of the world, he supposes. Hell, within two blocks of his condo there are at least eight coffee shops, and only three of them are Starbucks. He's not the only one who wants the kick of caffeine and the endless ingenuity of flavorings and spices and sugar and cream, a relatively expensive cup of coffee but a relatively inexpensive treat.

This morning he keeps it simple. Two mugs in hand, contents dark and steaming with the aroma of good beans with a balanced roast, he heads back to the bedroom.

The Wade cocoon on the bed hasn’t moved, so he sets one cup down on the nightstand, then sips the other while he squats to pick up the various messes they’d left behind last night. Winces again at the warm ache in his thighs and ass--it's been a very long time since he let someone fuck him so hard or so thoroughly. Trash goes in the small bedside waste basket, lube found on the floor next to the bed, thankfully with the cap closed, is returned to the nightstand, and he scoops up the various dirty clothes he’d left on the floor. He leaves Wade’s clothes alone.

As he deposits the dirties in the hamper in the bathroom, he finds his phone still in his pants pocket. Pulling it out, he walks back toward the bedroom and checks his notifications, seeing two things. One is that the battery is at 31%. The second is that he has a number of texts from Hope.

He grimaces, takes his coffee and his phone, and goes to slide back into bed, propped up against the headboard with a pillow at his back. He’s reading through the texts--mostly variations on “are you up?” and “Dad, what happened last night??” and “text me when you’re up” along with some creative threats if he doesn’t comply--as the pile of blankets next to him on the bed groans theatrically.

He types off a quick reply-- _Hi kiddo, I’m up_ \--and then turns his attention to Wade.

A hand emerges, lifts the comforter edge to show Wade’s face. He gives Nate a bleary-eyed once over, then cranes his neck to look toward the windows. Then groans again and pulls the bed covers back down so he’s barely peeking out and whines, “I was right, you get up so fucking early. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“ _Carpe diem_ , sunshine,” Nate replies without the slightest hint of remorse. But he leans over and picks up the second cup of coffee to offer to the blanket pile.

Wade blinks owlishly for a moment, then heaves upright with a sigh, blankets cascading down into a pile around him, hand rubbing over his scalp and face.

“I hate you,” he grumbles, taking the offered mug.

“Sure you do,” Nate replies agreeably, sipping his coffee. “That’s why you didn’t leave my personal space all night long.”

"Sexiness and body warmth have nothing to do with my emotional feelings for you. You're a horrible, cruel person," Wade pouts. Takes a sip. Looks surprised. Takes several much larger swallows. “Wow, what third world country did you indirectly exploit to get this?”

“None. The beans are fair trade and organic.”

“Hey Mr. Hypocrite, you’re living in a giant building that’s totally not environmentally friendly, probably exploits all kinds of people, and you’re worrying about what kind of coffee you buy?”

Nate really wants to argue. Wants to justify each little perfectly roasted coffee bean and their journey from a place far away to his cup, except--

“You have a point,” Nate says. Wade looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to admit that, especially Nate, but tries to hide the expression by slurping at his cup. “It’s a big, new building that’s full of steel and concrete, so in that sense it’s not a great environment choice. But each condo uses a lot less land than a house with a white picket fence and a yard. And I can walk to work and most everything else I need. There’s even a farmer’s market a few blocks away in the spring and summer, so I can support local farms.”

“Still a bunch of new, fancy, expensive shit,” Wade says obstinately.

“I can’t deny that. My footprint’s not zero, but I try to make choices to reduce it. And I go to work and I make a living stopping companies from polluting, helping clients with environmental law. Do a good bit with labor law too, try to keep other rich assholes from stepping all over the little guy. Do some _pro bono_ work too, when I can.”

Wade squints at him. “Okay, this totally fits with my image of the dork who ate a tofu burrito without a gun held to his head and says shit like ‘support local farms.’ But--” He gestures at the whole of Nate with his cup. “--but it doesn’t _fit_ with the rest of you.”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Vets aren’t allowed to be environmentalists and support labor?”

“Aha!” Wade exclaims triumphantly. “You are a vet! I mean, I thought you might be. You said military training, so...”

Nate snorts. “Yeah, Navy. SEALs. You?”

Wade shrugs with one shoulder, suddenly intensely interested in studying the inside of his coffee cup. “Oh. Well. Army special forces.”

“Iraq?”

“Afghanistan.”

“It was Iraq for me. Close enough to the same thing.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, uncomfortable with memories and things that they don’t want to talk about, yet meaningful with shared understanding. Wade is still paying way more attention to his coffee cup than anything else, staring down at it with a moody expression, drinking in gulps. Nate thoughtfully tips his own cup, drains it down in long, slow swallows. Then sets it on the bedside table, and reaches for Wade’s.

“Hey, who says I’m done with that?” Wade protests as Nate’s fingers settle on the cup and tug.

“It’s empty,” Nate points out reasonably.

With a disgruntled noise, like he’s offended by the sheer _logic_ of the reply, Wade lets go. Nate moves the cup next to the other. Then he’s scooting closer, flesh hand resting on one of Wade’s on top of the sheets.

“You ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen,” he says simply.

“Thanks, but I’ll probably talk about it the day I talk about all the other shit in my life, which is hopefully never,” Wade bites out.

Nate tips his head, bemused expression on his face. “Hopefully?”

“You don’t want to hear about all the stupid, dumb shit in my life, seriously.”

“Try me.”

“You first,” Wade snorts and half turns instead, tugging Nate closer. It looks like an attempt at distraction if Nate’s ever seen it, but it’s a _nice_ distraction as Wade pulls him in for a kiss. Wade tastes like coffee, but then, so does he, and it’s probably better than whatever morning breath Wade had been sporting before.

It’s a good-morning kiss, a waking up kiss, and they’re both edging closer to each other as it progresses, as it heats them even more than the coffee. Nate is considering the pros and cons of shoving Wade back against the headboard and straddling his lap versus pulling Wade into _his_ lap when he feels Wade’s hand settle on his side, slide downward in a circuitous path that makes Nate think Wade’s not trying to be coy about his end goal--he really just seems to like feeling every inch of skin he happens to meet on the way, getting distracted by stroking over side and back and hip on his way.

“You got up to get coffee, but you’re still naked?” he asks, finger playing along the dipping line hip bone, teasingly along the edge of pubic hair. “Won’t the neighbors see or something?”

“Why should I give a shit? Fear of nudity is a pointless societal construct,” Nate says dismissively, and then he abruptly implements, shoving blankets aside so he can get up on his knees, push Wade’s shoulder back with his artificial hand so that Wade is pressed against the headboard with a gasp while he straddles Wade’s lap with one smooth motion. The other looks completely caught off guard, gaping up at him, and Nate grins down, letting it look a little mean. He meant what he told Wade last night--he has plans, and they involved half-formed ideas about making Wade beg for it.

And then his phone rings.

Wade looks in affronted and astonished indignation at the device, abandoned near the side of the bed, vibrating against the sheets and playing a little tune.

“The Nokia ringtone? What the _hell_ , Nate?” he gloats. “Did you miss the aughts so much you kept the ringtone? Missing your first flip phone? Hey, the year two thousand called, it wants its ringtone back.”

Nate slides off Wade’s lap with a grimace. “Couldn’t pick just one witty remark?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Blame Hope,” he says, scooping the tech off the bed. “She always gets into my new phones when I’m not paying attention and adds it. I don’t understand it, but it seems to make her happy.”

“I knew I liked that girl,” Wade cackles.

“I need to take this,” Nate says, trying to put as much menace as he can into his next words. “God’s sake, keep quiet, find something for your mouth to do other than talk, or I’m going to make you regret every word.”

Then he's swiping to accept the call and lifting the phone to his ear.

"Good morning, kiddo," he says, smile on his face and in his voice as he turns and settles back against the headboard again. "I promise I'm alive. What's up?"

 _"Dammit, Dad!"_ is yelled into his ear. He jerks the phone away and winces, and Wade must have heard it clearly, because he’s smothering a laugh in his palm.

_“I was so worried! Why the hell did you chase that hoodlum last night?! And don’t give me that bullshit excuse you texted me about ‘just wanted to see if you could catch him,’ because if that was all you were up to, you would have come back ten minutes later!”_

The hoodlum in question is still snickering under his breath. Nate tips his head back against the headboard so he doesn’t distract himself with looking at Wade--he needs to focus. He breathes a silent sigh of relief as the other man hops off the bed and heads toward the ensuite. Hears water start.

“It sounds like I gave you a scare and I’m sorry. But after dinner and that business on the street and running around downtown trying to catch the guy, I just wanted to head home and simmer down and go to bed. Didn’t think I’d be very pleasant company if I came back.”

Hope snorts in his ear, still sounding unconvinced but slightly less mad. _“Yeah, well, I can understand not being pleasant company after last night. I-- It-- The whole thing got me … thinking,”_ she ends, suddenly tentative.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, trying to sound as casual as possible, not like he’s practically vibrating with, no pun intended, hope.

_“I don’t know. No. Yes. It’s just … that guy. He was rude and gross and ugly and I hope I never see him again--”_

Nate winces.

_“--but he had a point.”_

“A point?” Nate mirrors encouragingly.

_“Yes, a point. I know you know what I’m talking about, Dad, don’t play dumb with me.”_

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nate says innocently, hears her snort. “What point?”

 _“Wellllll…..”_ He can practically feel her dithering on the other end of the line, trying to decide how much she wants to say. _“Emil is a great guy and I like him, but I’m not sure if he appreciates me for … for what I like about myself. It’s almost like he sees someone else sometimes, or just parts of me. Is that so bad?”_ she finishes, sounding a bit lost.

“I think the question is, does it feel bad to you?” he counters. He dimly registers the ensuite door opening, footsteps approaching.

 _“That’s a bullshit therapist question,”_ she complains.

“That’s because it’s not my business to tell you what to do. But I’m happy to be your sounding board as you think it through,” he says, trying to sound supportive and casual. He’s staring fixedly at the ceiling. Focusing on the round outline of a concealed sprinkler system head, the texture of the paint on the ceiling. He resolutely tries to ignore the dip and bounce of the bed as Wade hops on again, the soft noise of Wade whispering under his breath--he’s more than a little worried the other man won’t manage to stay quiet--and what he can see from the corner of his eye as Wade flops onto his belly at the foot of the bed.

_“Ugh, I hate it when you’re so reasonable. Yes, it feels bad. That guy was right--it’s like Emil doesn’t even see parts of me.”_

Nate silently and triumphantly fistpumps. And then only barely stops himself from yelping as a warm hand, slightly damp, slides up the inside of one leg. It’s joined a moment later by another hand on the other leg, as with much wiggling and squirming Wade shoves his way higher, squirms up the bed right between Nate’s thighs.

“See, uh, part-- parts of you?” he echoes weakly, trying and failing to come up with any coherent plan, anything to say, anything to do, other than grabbing at the back of Wade’s head.

 _Find something for your mouth to do other than talk._ His words suddenly come back to him perfectly clear, heavier with hindsight, and he curses himself for an idiot. That was a blatant invitation for trouble, he thinks, and then Wade’s mouth is a warm heat as it settles on his cock.

 _“Yeah, you know,”_ Hope answers over the phone, oblivious to what’s going on. _“What that guy said. I was going to kick his ass and Emil thought I needed saving.”_

“True,” Nate agrees as evenly as he can. He grips harder on the back of Wade’s head but shuts out conscious focus on what’s going on in his lap, just spreads his legs a little wider, lets reaction and instinct take over to roll upward lazily into Wade’s mouth in whatever thoughtless way feels good. Feeling a muddled haze on the edge of purposeful thought. “You’re right, I do know. Nice form, by the way. I kept expecting you to level that guy.” He has to stifle a curse as Wade pauses for a second, and he feels the warning press of teeth. That’s atrocious blow job etiquette and it _should_ be a turnoff, _absolutely_ should make him softer. The casual disobedience and undercurrent of threat shouldn’t make him even harder, but so far nothing about Wade has led to what he expected or what is normal.

 _“Yeah, I thought I had him, but he managed to get out of your special move by one-armed people,”_ Hope says, far too casual. _“Like he was used to it,”_ she drawls. Alarm bells start going off in Nate’s head, claxons of _uh oh_ that should call for an emergency tactical retreat, except his blood is definitely somewhere else and thought is a lethargic thing, far more brute force required than normal.

“Uuuuh,” is his stellar response.

 _“So, where’d you find him?”_ Hope asks, all innocence and threat, and he’s suddenly _very_ glad she’s over in the University District, not interrogating him in person. Quite aside from the Wade problem, she’d be going toe-to-toe with him right now. He hadn’t lied--he’s the one that taught her to fight, taught her everything he knows, and she has the advantage of two fully working arms, even if he has the advantage of height and weight.

“Um--” he starts, but she interrupts, gleeful malice in her voice.

_“I’m guessing on a street corner. Or maybe Home Depot, like those guys that you can hire for odd jobs. Really, Dad? You got some bastard to pick a fight with me, just to try to break us up?”_

“Not break you up!” he protests. He probably sounds far more worried than he is, voice rising and cracking, because Wade chooses that moment to swallow him all the way down, nose pressed against his pubes, throat pulsing around his cock and _Jesus_ \--he shoves the phone between shoulder and ear and grabs Wade’s head with two hands, blushing furiously as he worries Hope is going to catch on, but still pressing as hard as he can into Wade’s mouth before the other twists and struggles and he regretfully lets him go. Realizes he should actually finish his defense. “Just … wanted to make you think,” he adds quickly, fingers stroking over the curve of Wade’s hollowed cheek. “About what’s important, what you really want,” he finds himself blathering, pressing firmly against the back of Wade’s head as the other bobs, feeling emotions messy and conflicted with amusement, annoyance, arousal, … fondness tinged with a possibility of something deeper.

 _“Hmph.”_ Hope sounds spectacularly unimpressed. _“I would be plotting how to sneak laxatives into everything in your fridge and get Irene to put you on back-to-back shit cases for the next month, except,”_ her voice softens for a brief moment, _“… it actually worked. Until I stopped and thought about that move and figured it out. Then I just wanted to yell in your face,”_ she finishes grumpily.

“Oh. Well. Then I’m getting off lightly,” Nate says. “And for what it’s worth, I found him on Craigslist.”

 _“Dad!!”_ comes the scandalized yell, but this time he’d anticipated and pulled a hand back to hold the phone away from his ear, so he just grins.

“What? You asked,” he says, unrepentant and grinning.

 _“Jesus, you suck,”_ she mutters. _“I’m going to hang up now and think about either murdering you or breaking up with Emil. You better hope the second one wins.”_

“You do what you need to do, kiddo,” he replies smoothly. “Love ya.”

 _“I love you too, Dad,”_ she says, a little softer, suddenly in a few words his little girl again, the one he used to hug and cuddle and kiss on the top of her head, and then the call ends.

He tosses the phone to the side onto the bed, grabs Wade, and rolls and flips them so he ends up pinning Wade between his thighs, glaring down, Wade still mouthing cheerfully at his cock.

“You’re a fucking brat, you know that? What the fucking hell, Wade? What if Hope had _heard?_ ”

There’s a very emotive one-shouldered shrug, wickedly sparkling eyes, and a muffled reply of, “Wwwrr u unna oo awaa ii, aaaiiy?”

And suddenly Nate remembers a few days ago, Wade stealing chips with a gleam in his eye and saying, _Whatcha gonna do about it, Daddy?_

“You’d better watch it with that ‘Daddy' shit," he warns menacingly.

Wade hurriedly squirms enough to pop Nate’s cock out of his mouth and sing-songs, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, watcha gonna do about it, Daddy? Also, Hope called you out? Is she going to dump that dumb kid’s ass? Do you want me to go beat him up afterward, just for fun?”

“Jesus, no, why would I want you to do something pointless and dumb and violent like that?”

Wade shrugs and licks at the underside of Nate’s cockhead. “Pointless and dumb and violent is kinda my brand. If you don’t like it, you should probably hurry up and dump me and get it over with.”

Nate honest-to-goodness snarls, teeth drawn back and animalistic noise catching in his throat. Wade’s off-handed dismissal of this growing, nebulous _thing_ between them, at the dismissal of Wade himself, as though he’s something to be discarded casually, like garbage, destined only for the trash and no better end--it fills him with sharp and biting and _purposeful_ rage.

He rolls and pivots off Wade, artificial fist supporting his weight for a second before he comes down sitting at the edge of the bed, yanks the nightstand drawer open and snatches up supplies again.

“Get over here,” he growls, twisting to pin Wade with a glare. “On my lap.”

Wade is still stretched on his back, face quickly shifting from a surprised blank to cautious.

“Is this about the Daddy thing?”

“I’m going to put you over my knee, spank the sass and dumb out of you, and then fuck you senseless,” he promises, low growl and threat and heat in every word. He means it, has no urge to be kind right now, and he thinks Wade … Wade may need someone who’s not always kind. “If that’s your daddy fantasy, then sure.”

Wade swallows. Swallows again. His pupils are blown wide and he’s half raised up on elbows, looking in a quivering half-place between arousal and flight.

“I hate to break it to you,” he tries, swallows again, “but I’ve got more dumb and sass than you’re ever going to be able to spank out. Fuck out either. Just give up now, skip the disappointment.”

“ _Jesus_ , get over here,” Nate breathes, twists and reaches and pulls.

The angle he’s at, he isn’t going to be able to drag Wade, but just wrapping his fingers around Wade’s wrist is enough, the other man comes with barest pressure, scrambling to follow. Nate strokes his thumb on the underside of Wade’s wrist, feels the softer skin there.

To an outside observer, it might look like he’s dragging Wade to his lap, across his thighs, but he just provides the slightest guiding pull. Wade’s the one who moves, who’s making it happen. It soothes Nate’s worry that he’s coming on too strong, bullying Wade into this. He switches from flesh to artificial hand around Wade’s wrist as he pulls him the rest of the way forward and across. Wade settles in his lap, cock firm and unyielding against Nate’s thigh. He lets his feeling fingertips slide along the curve of Wade’s back, down to his ass, linger there with palm spread across both cheeks. Feels Wade shiver.

With his other hand he drops Wade’s wrist, open hand tracing up Wade’s arm to shoulder to the back of his neck. It’s a different sort of feedback, no direct touch, more like an arm that’s so far asleep that you know you’re moving it, you can see it, but no feeling goes along with the sight. There’s some sense of pressure transmitted up the artificial material to what remains of his upper arm, so he feels that pressure. Imagines feeling more, maybe. Wade doesn’t seem to mind it or shy away from it, so that’s something.

His hand closes on the back of Wade’s neck. “This hand,” he says, low and forceful, “it’s got pressure sensors, isn’t supposed to grip too hard, even if I _tried_ to squeeze your neck so it hurts it shouldn’t. But if something goes wrong and it doesn’t behave, yell at me to let go, okay?”

Wade squirms, pulling his crossed arms under his chin. “Sure thing, _Daddy_ ,” he retorts, but there’s an uncertainty in his voice that he can’t hide.

Nate tries squeezing that hand on the back of Wade’s neck, sees the silver and black gleam, tighten slightly then no more. Wade gasps and he grinds against Nate’s leg, a mindless little back and forth.

Nate releases, watches the hand relax to something lighter, but keeps the pressure on, Wade’s head and shoulders held low on the sheet. Then he traces across Wade’s backside with his flesh hand, mapping the feel of skin and scar tissue, the shape of Wade’s ass. He caresses down the back of Wade’s thigh, then slides between thighs to run his fingers back up. Wade gives a little gasp, cants his hips higher, spreads his legs as Nate’s fingers trace up the inside of his thigh, brush against his balls.

He traces a single finger up the seam behind Wade’s sac and over Wade’s hole, touch light and curious. He lingers there, tracing in a small circle, as Wade pants and spreads his legs further, moans and squirms, burying his face in his crossed arms. “Fucking tease,” he complains, muffled and ragged.

“You want me to stop, you say ‘stop,’” Nate says brusquely, pressing a little on Wade’s asshole, feeling it give a little under the pressure, knows that without lube it has to be a mix of pleasure and uncomfortable and worrying, since Wade has no way of knowing if he’s enough of a bastard to keep pressing in dry.

“Oh come on,” Wade whines. “You’re taking all the fun out of it. What about a safe word? How about ‘chimichanga’? Or ‘look out Daddy, Mommy’s coming!’ Or ‘Undercover cop, you’re under arrest for soliciting a prostitute!’”

Nate hauls back and smacks Wade’s ass, grins mean and satisfied at the stifled yelp it draws.

“I repeat. You want me to stop, you open that dirty mouth, use your big boy words, and say stop,” he says roughly, then lands another smack.

Then another. And another.

Spanking like this has a rhythm, working Wade’s ass over seemingly randomly yet methodically. It's not something Nate’s done with all his partners. Not everyone is into a mix of pain and pleasure that blur together into something better. Nonetheless, he’s had enough practice over the years to feel confident doing this. The sharp sound of skin-on-skin echoes in the room, seems to bounce off the window glass and come back to him twice as loud and sharp. The silences between blows are immense, only broken by Wade’s little gasps and bitten off curses and stream of “God! Fuck! God! Kinky Daddy-looking motherfucker!” and on and on, the hitching sound of his breath before the next sharp crack getting more strung-out as it builds.

“So, I’m going to need you to stop putting yourself down,” Nate says calmly as he keeps on punishing Wade’s reddening cheeks. “It pisses me off _so fucking much_.”

“ _That’s_ your problem?” Wade manages to gasp. “Not the daddy stuff? Not the surprise inappropriate blowjob? Not revenge for last night?”

“Maybe a bit for those too,” Nate concedes. He starts alternating rubbing and kneading Wade’s asscheeks with light smacks, stalling, slowing it down, drawing out the sensations of an already abused ass, keeping the mix of pain and pleasure going while he says his piece. “But this is more important. You’re not a complete idiot or a complete asshole. Stop acting like one."

“Not ‘complete’? _In-sul-ting!_ I’ll have you know I’m one hundred percent asshole!”

He leans down to whisper closer to Wade’s ear, “News flash. I’m an asshole too.”

Wade snickers but it changes to a gasp and whimper as Nate lands three hard blows in a row. He bucks in Nate’s lap, curse muffled against his arm, manages to find his breath after a few seconds when Nate just goes back to soothing a hand over hot flesh.

“What about ‘idiot’?” he asks, sounding strained.

“Everyone’s an idiot,” Nate says shortly. “Doesn’t matter whether it’s intellect or emotions or common sense, everyone has something they’re just downright stupid on. I don’t hold it against people. And I kind of like your brand of stupid. _So stop trying to chase me off._ ”

“Your brand of stupid is you don’t see it’d be smarter that way!” Wade accuses.

“No, fuck-nugget, I don't. And you don't just get to run me off for my own good. I refuse," Nate snarls, hauls back and lands one last hit.

Wade moans, his head dropping onto his forearms, his whole body shuddering.

He’s rock hard against Nate’s thigh. Nate’s own erection is pressing against Wade’s stomach, hot and hard and demanding, a matching response. Neither of them can try to pretend they’re not getting off on this.

Wade’s ass is practically glowing it’s so reddened, so Nate finally pauses and grabs the lube. He flips the cap with his thumb and then drizzles it right on the crack of Wade’s ass.

He can tell it’s a mass of sensations. Wade winces away as he grabs one asscheek, moves his artificial hand to grip and squeeze the other side as well, but then he gasps and grinds back wantonly as Nate slips a finger inside him.

“Oh god yes. I see you’ve stopped trying to spank the sass and dumb out of me. Did it work?”

“Apparently not,” Nate says, trying to sound as grim as he can when he’s trying not to laugh.

“Don’t feel bad, my actual dad didn’t have any luck either,” Wade says glibly, not cognizant of the shocked expression he just caused on Nate’s face. “And, no offense, he was a lot meaner about it.” He moans and clenches. “You don’t have to stretch me out, you know. I’m fine.”

Nate moves his thought processes on by force of will. He’s not going to think about the casual reference to possible child abuse right now. Later. Right now he focuses on hot skin, cold lube, hotter inside as he carefully presses deeper, feels Wade out.

“I’m sure I don’t,” he replies after only a beat too long of silence, “but do you remember what I’m doing next?”

“Fucking me senseless?” Wade asks hopefully, trying to twist and squirm in Nate’s lap.

“Yeah. And remember last night?”

“Oh yeah, it’s going to be part of the spank bank for _months_ ,” Wade leers.

“Remember how you wouldn’t get me off? Remember I said next time you’ll get to beg me for it?” Nate asks, smiling with far too many teeth and sliding another finger in beside the first.

“Oh crap,” is Wade’s not-so-witty response and Nate chuckles darkly.

He starts working Wade over in earnest, toying with him, adding another finger as he goes, pausing only to drizzle more lube down over Wade’s rapidly reddening hole. It’s gratifying just how _lost_ Wade sounds, how he’s whimpering when Nate kneads his sore ass, moaning as he’s fingerfucked, writhing against the sheets when Nate makes sure to hit his sweet spot only occasionally, humping his thigh with absolute abandon, fists clenching on the sheets.

"Nate, cummon, fuck me, please, _please_ , god, fuck, cummon, _please_ ," he's panting excitedly.

“Ask Daddy nicely,” he says, doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but then it’s out of his mouth and he can’t take it back.

The absolutely _scandalized_ look Wade throws him over his shoulder makes it worth it.

“You motherfucker! I thought you didn’t like that daddy shit!”

“Oh, is that why you were using it so much?” he asks dryly, pushing his fingers in as deep as he can and holding it. “Just to annoy me?”

“Nnnnnggh, well duh, that and the fact that you _are_ a fucking hot daddy type. God, the growly voice, the muscles, who wouldn’t want to be held down and fucked senseless by fucking incredibly Hot Daddy with his fucking gorgeous cock and-- I’m saying this out loud, aren’t I?”

Nate outright laughs. “Yeah, you are. So ask Daddy nicely.”

“Dammit,” Wade pants. Then, demurely, “Daddy, can you please fuck me with your big cock? I’d really like that.”

Nate snorts and pulls his fingers free, wiping them down on the sheets as thoroughly as he can. He’s going to have to wash all the bedding after this, he thinks vaguely.

“Sure thing, princess,” he says, patting Wade’s ass. “You get on your hands and knees on the bed and Daddy’ll take care of you.”

“Oh you fucker,” Wade mutters under his breath, but he bonelessly slides off Nate’s lap and crawls into the center of the bed.

Nate takes a moment to tear open a condom and roll it on, and then he’s climbing onto the bed after Wade.

He finds the other has taken him at his word, on hands and knees, thighs slightly spread. It’s a damn pretty picture, reddened ass and slick glistening between his cheeks, here and waiting just for him. It’s the work of a moment to line up and push in slow and easy. It’s almost anticlimactic how simple it is. Even though they’ve shared three orgasms so far, this is the first time he’s gotten his dick in Wade, and yet he slides in as easy as if Wade was made to take him, as if they'd done this a dozen times before.

“You’ve got a nice ass, princess,” he says approvingly, settling a hand on each side of Wade’s aforementioned body part, flesh hand gripping easily and metal hand carefully, flesh thumb tracing a ridge of scar tissue. "Just gorgeous."

Wade gives a choked-off moan, seemingly as much from the words as from Nate hot and heavy inside him.

Nate gives no mercy, fucks steadily and precisely, making sure he’s making Wade gasp on every thrust, like it’s being forced out of him. It’s dirty fucking, punctuated by moans and the bed creaking softly and the slap of skin on abused skin every single time he surges forward. It’s about being in charge, being the one dishing it out, hands sure and demanding as they pull Wade against him over and over. And when Wade tries to get a hand on his own bouncing cock, Nate intercepts it, grabs and twists the arm behind Wade’s back and then shoves his hips down, following him all the way down to the mattress, Wade’s cock trapped between his body and the sheets.

“No touching,” he informs Wade behind his ear.

“Naaaaaate!” Wade whines. “No fair!”

“Fair would have been you helping me out last night, sweetheart,” Nate declares with an evil chuckle and a kiss to the back of Wade’s neck. “So now you can wait until I’m done or you can come this way.”

“Joke’s on you, can _totally_ come like this,” Wade pants defiantly, squirming underneath him.

Nate smiles. It feels good this way, pressing the taller man into the mattress with his weight. It’s downright _indulgent_ , lazily stretched out and buried balls deep, and he goes with that feeling, making slow lazy rolls of his hips.

He’d intended to keep it mean. Demanding. He certainly stays in control, but somehow _mean_ melts away, turns into something else entirely as Wade surges back against him and he rocks forward. They’re moving with each other, twisted up in each other. Wade is gasping under him, moaning on each thrust, and that seems less like they’re being forced out of him and more like he just can’t contain how good it feels, and that’s going right to Nate’s ego and his dick. Nate is panting at the back of Wade’s neck, mouthing there as he keeps driving pleasure for them both. Nate’s right hand somehow finds Wade’s, ostensibly to hold him in place, but as he slots their fingers together just as neatly as the rest of their bodies seem to fit, it feels like something more. Wade’s other hand is scrambling, reaching blindly back, and ends up grabbing at Nate’s hip, urging him on. Nate manages to draw it out as long as he can, a slow dance on the bed sheets, first deep grind until they’re both gasping and on the edge, then pulling back with shallow, teasing strokes until Wade starts ranting about ‘smug bastards who shouldn’t be allowed to have dicks’ and ‘more dammit’ and then properly begging with lots of ‘please please Nate I swear I’m going to die if you don’t’, then deep again.

His orgasm catches Nate by surprise, because it’s so _natural_ , an extension of everything that came before slowly building, not a sharp peak but a broad mountaintop. It’s deep and shuddering and powerful, pulling at him. And when Wade seizes under him, gasping brokenly, the fingers interlocked with his squeezing almost to the point of pain, it’s more, it’s a riptide sucking him down. He’s dragging Wade back against him, Wade’s dragging him along with him, forehead on the back of Wade’s neck, gritting his teeth and coming hard.

Suddenly Nate doesn’t care about anything but pulling out--Wade gives a happy moan--and sinking back on his heels, panting. He fumbles the condom off with his flesh hand and tosses it, then reaches out with his artificial hand. He misjudges depth twice before he manages to get a grip on the comforter and then hauls it over the top of them both as he collapses against Wade’s back and side, nose pressed to Wade’s skin, flesh arm slung over Wade’s back, eyes already closed.

“Holy fuck,” Wade mutters next to him.

Nate grunts in agreement and then falls back asleep in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s was an incredibly subtle homage to Cable & Deadpool #19 in here. “You first”, regarding sharing personal backstory. From the Intercourse, Pennsylvania chapter.


	9. You First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, it's angst. (I needed them to have a serious emotional discussion, but apparently that was very difficult for Wade, poor boy.) But the angst is resolved within chapter--I'm not _that_ cruel.
> 
> Mental health issues, so be careful if that’s upsetting to you. And OTH = other-than-honorable [military discharge].
> 
> (I am not a veteran. I am not mentally ill. I did my best touching on these topics respectfully and as realistically as I know how, but drop me a comment if you are in those groups and have a specific problem with how I wrote it.)

Wade is sure that he’s still asleep. Things are too warm and soft and clean-smelling around him to be the reality of his own nasty bed. He takes a deep breath, savors the non-scent of clean sheets, feels the solid heat of a body pressed against him and draped over him.

_**Oh come on. Your short-term memory can’t be this bad.** _

He wiggles in annoyance at the voice for disrupting a perfectly good cuddling dream and then hisses as he realizes his ass muscles are sore and feeling well-used and abused.

_**Yeah, almost like you’d gotten royally spanked and then fucked long and hard--** _

Heheh.

_**\--by your feisty little daddy crush.** _

Oh.

Wade’s eyes fly open and he squirms against the warmth of another body, pressing him down, arm flung over his back, rolling over onto his side so he’s looking directly at Nate’s sleeping face. He realizes he could really, _really_ get used to squirming around to look up close at Nate’s sleeping face. Or his awake face. Or his grumpy face. Really any of his faces, they’re all starting to hold a strange appeal. The scar lines, the little crease between his eyebrows where he’s frowning in his sleep at Wade’s wiggling, the strands of hair that are falling forward into his face, the gray morning stubble--it just makes an unexpected happy, warm, tight feeling blossom in his chest.

_Please stop, that’s disgustingly sappy._

It also makes him consider scooting closer so he can not-so-surreptitiously hump Nate’s leg.

_That’s more like it._

But really, what are the odds? It’s so fucking improbable. There’s no reason for Nate to have oh-so-clearly mistaken him for swipe-right material, none at all. It’s the kind of situation you only see in a movie. Or maybe a sappy romance novel with a down-on-her-luck hero or heroine who gets swept away by a rich and powerful and for-some-reason besotted suitor. (Not that he ever reads those and absolutely not that he has a couple extremely trashy ones stashed under his bed next to his stash of lube and a vibrating dildo.)

It’s absolutely too good to be true.

“Nate. Nate. Nate!” he whispers.

“Whatisit?” Nate groans without opening his eyes.

“Is it possible that we’re all just an idea in someone else’s head or characters in someone else’s fictional story and none of this is real, including the incredible sex, and we may just disappear when they lose interest in us?”

Nate’s eyes flutter open.

“What the _fuck_ are you on about?” he asks in the most put upon and wondering voice possible for someone who’s just been rudely woken up from a post-sexytime nap.

_**You’re acting weird by ‘normal’ people standards, just so you know.** _

“Don’t you ever just wonder whether you’re real or not?” Wade asks, scanning Nate’s face from inches away. He watches Nate’s eyebrows scrunch lower in some combination of confusion and annoyance.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh. Well.” Wade tries to recover. “That’s just me and the voices, I guess.” Then, realizing what he said at the same moment as Nate’s eyebrows reverse course and look like they’re trying to see if they can go far enough up to reach his hairline, and as Nate repeats “Voices?” in an utterly confused tone, Wade says, “Oh fuck,” in horror.

Wade tries not to let people know about the thoughts in his head that don’t feel like his own. Sometimes he forgets to keep his mouth shut. When he does, personal relationships pretty much always go straight to shit.

“Voices?” Nate repeats. “Sorry, did you just imply-- You hear--”

“Voices? Thoughts? Intrusive thoughts?” Wade says as brightly as he can, a one hundred percent false veneer of this-is-fine. “Pretty much. Sometimes. Depends.”

As it so happens, it often _depended_ on emotional stress. Accidentally outing himself, mental-health-wise, to the guy he is really enjoying sleeping with, the guy who just a couple hours ago had made a very clear, very big, very (in Wade’s frame of reference anyway) romantic deal about how Wade wasn’t allowed to chase him off, a guy with whom Wade is starting to entertain the _really_ wild, impossible hope of thinking this might last more than a week, … well … that’s some hefty emotional stress right there. His personal internal dialogue is currently a running, overlapping, panic-tinged, accusatory chant, making it increasingly hard to think.

_Fucked up **fucked up** fucked up **fucked up** oh my god fucked up so bad how stupid are you **fucked up** \--_

“Could you elaborate on that?” Nate says carefully.

Wade doesn’t want to deal with this. He really doesn’t. He’s not sure he can. He squirms backwards, pulling away from Nate and backing up, sitting up cross legged facing Nate, rubbing a hand over his scarred head in frustration.

“Fuck,” he mutters angrily, frustration meant entirely for himself.

Nate is blinking in confusion now, propped up on one black-and-silver elbow. The edge of a sheet is draped over his thigh, falling across his crotch just right to hide all the most interesting parts from sight. Broad chest, pretty nipples. Wade wants all of that so bad it hurts. Wants to erase the past minute of conversation, wants to go back over there to Nate and touch and not have to deal with any of this.

“Look, I’m nuts, okay?” he says harshly. “Brain’s a tin can with holes poked in it, sometimes reality gets a little fuzzy around the edges. And I’ve got two extra trains of thought going, making comments when they feel like it.” Although focusing on talking seems to be helping, the littony of _fucked up_ in his head slowing and quieting as he goes on, like the voices are listening to him too. Their attentiveness is kind of nice.

_**No problem, man.** _

“Have you talked to someone about this?” Nate asks cautiously, otherwise unmoving.

“Talking to you,” Wade grumbles, grabbing the sheet and pulling it up around his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest to wrap himself, twisting his hands in the fabric as he tries to hide most of himself from Nate’s unreadable gaze.

“Someone professional,” Nate clarifies.

“‘Course I have,” he snaps. “Been this way since--” he gestures expansively from his face down his torso “--this shit. Trauma blah blah blah PTSD blah blah I don’t know, the army shrinks had opinions about it.

“Didn’t stop them from giving me an OTH for being too good at what I did,” he mutters.

Nate sucks in a breath, a flash of shock plain across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, very carefully.

“Shut up,” Wade snarls, fingers clenching tighter in the sheets. He feels hot and angry and disjointed, like he could fly apart at any moment. “I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t have one, mister big-shot attorney, so just shut up.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Nate’s face twists in a grimace.

“Jesus. Shut up.” He just can’t stop himself. “I can’t believe this. You were somehow okay with me looking like dog food that’s been eaten and shit out while you look like a three-course meal. With me living in a filthy shithole off under-the-table money I make beating people up and starting shit while you’re--” he pulls a hand out to wave it viciously at the entire bedroom “--like this! Now on top of that you know I’m a fucking mental health nightmare and an OTH and you’ve got your shit together and are probably fucking decoarated and-- and--” He’s going to start bawling if he keeps going, so he snaps his jaw closed as hard as he can, holds it back. _And how long is it before enough is enough and the scales tip_ , he’s thinking to himself.

“And yet,” Nate says carefully, “here I am.” Wade just glares at him, fiercely blinking back the tears that want to come. “Not gonna lie, that’s … a lot. Don’t think it changes anything though. I still want to get to know you better.” He gives a short, dry bark of laughter. “Which I guess I just did. But more than that. I still don’t see anything that’s gonna scare me off.”

_**Confirming once again that you’re not the only insane one here.** _

“Okay if I keep talking?” Nate asks. “I’m going to tell you a few things about me now. I don’t have any massive secrets or anything that’s going to compete with that--not that it’s a competition--but maybe it can even things out a little.”

Wade glares and shrugs angrily, because he's still trying to get control of his voice and doesn't trust himself to be able to tell Nate out loud where to shove his ideas.

Nate seems to take that as permission to keep talking.

“I could try to complain about my family, but honestly, my parents are pretty good folk. They were diplomats, high level State Department, well paid, upper class. I lived all over the world with them as a kid, watched them argue for human rights and fight for what was best for this country, even if they were fighting peacefully with words, not guns.”

Wade finds himself listening despite himself. He feels no less angry, but focusing on Nate’s words puts a tiny but important distance between himself and the rage and despair, lets him step back from it just enough. He turns that over in his mind. That was Nate’s childhood? What would that have been like, living all over the world, traveling constantly, watching politics playing out around him?

“They thought I’d do the same thing, continue the family name in diplomacy or government service or law.” Nate gives a little snort, like the idea is laughable. “Guess I wasn’t cut out for that. I graduated that fancy prep school they had me in and went into the Navy without a second thought.”

Nate carefully sits up as he continues, slowly like he thinks Wade’s going to bolt. “Sure, they said they were proud of me, defending this country, all that. But there is always a look in their eyes, a hesitancy, a strain in their voice. They never did approve of my methods, back then.” He laughs mirthlessly. “Of course, they like my brother’s choices even less. God what an asshole.” He cocks an eyebrow at Wade. “Exactly how much shit am I going to have to listen to if I tell you I have a twin brother?”

_OH HELLO SHINY NEW FACT._

_**Holy shit, did he say twin brother?** _

Wade’s jaw drops. There are so many amazing things about this revelation. He can’t even think of where to start.

Nate chuckles. “Wow, I didn’t realize _that_ was what it would take to make you speechless.”

 _That_ gets Wade’s neurons firing together once more “How dare you just drop that fact! That’s an information weapon of mass destruction! You have a _twin?_ Please tell me you mean identical twin?!” He shouldn’t want that. He does want that.

“Yes, he is,” Nate says dryly.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Wade breathes. “Does he look like you? I mean, does he work out? Of course he won’t have your scars and missing bits, but shit!”

Nate sighs deeply. “Yes, he looks like me, muscles and all, except without the scars and damage and I don’t even want to think about how much time he spends on skin care every day.”

“Oh em gee. Double your pleasure, double your fun,” Wade breathes happily, already ticking off in his head all the amazing fantasy material possible here.

“Don’t get too excited,” Nate says dryly. “He’s also a businessman, happy to exploit the minimum wage worker, the system, the government, or whatever will make him more loaded. He’s a spoiled rich boy and I don’t think you’d like him at all.”

Wade’s fantasy of getting eiffel towered by the Summers twins skids to an abrupt stop. “Well shit. Here I thought you were going to be the evil twin. You’ve got the scars. The glare. The attitude. But no, if this is the good twin act, your brother must be … like … supervillain territory.”

Nate gives a bark of laughter. “Yeah, he’s toxic. My parents have fought with him so many times that they don’t even bother calling anymore except on Christmas and our birthday. At least they have Rachel to fully approve of.”

This is all very interesting and Wade’s going to be hounding Nate for more details later, but he also realizes something. Yes, his head is a churn of jumping from thought to eager thought, but the out-of-control fiery burn of frayed emotion has faded to a manageable level. Yes, he’s still apprehensive and worried and knows he’s going to spend way too much time thinking about potential problems later, but it’s no longer overwhelming, no longer the only thing he can think about.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you did there,” he grumbles. “You’re trying to distract me with the idea of two of you sexy bastards.”

Nate gives him a shit-eating grin. “Worked, didn’t it?” He scoots a little closer and reaches to carefully lay one hand on Wade’s sheet-covered knee. “Look, we’ve all got our shit.”

“ _Life_ is shit,” Wade says darkly. “You have what you have, until it gets taken away from you.”

“I can’t believe something that absolute,” Nate replies gently.

Wade goes back to glaring. “Oh sure, mister self-righteous positive attitude. _Sure_ the world is a fine and wonderful place. But you know what? I haven’t heard any big problems yet from you. So your parents aren’t one hundred percent behind your life choices and one of your siblings is a jerk! Boo hoo hoo!”

“Everyone’s shit is different,” Nate snaps back. “It doesn’t have to be worse than someone else’s to be hard. You want my shit? I chose to serve, so I got to make life and death decisions on the fly, always questioning myself afterwards, always going through all the ‘what ifs’. Losing friends. Losing this--” he gestures forcefully to face and arm with his flesh hand before replacing it on Wade’s knee “--and recovering afterward wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Neither was Hope’s mom, Aliya, divorcing my ass when I couldn’t get my shit together. And then once it was too late and I _did_ get my shit together again, sharing raising a kid while in law school.”

_Hm. Maybe we aren’t just characters in someone’s story after all. If we were, the author would have just fridged the mom. Makes for better traumatic backstory._

Wade admits that doesn’t sound like the easiest set of experiences. Still, he can’t just let go of his anger. “Gee, you had to go through law school to get all high paid and shit,” Wade grumbles. “You got overwhelming debts from that?”

Nate sighs, pulls the hand back to scrub his face. “No,” he admits. “The VA actually paid for some of it and my parents had money for the rest.”

“So, do you see a problem there?”

“Yeah, actually,” Nate snaps. His hand drops away from his face and he’s glaring at Wade, angry and tense and sexily draped with white sheets in the late morning sunlight. “I know it’s not everyone’s experience. I know I got a good deal. That’s one reason why I try to take cases that make the world just a little bit better. It’s a shitty, unequal system, with fuck-headed assholes running it and I can’t make much of a difference, can’t force it to be fairer, but if I stop trying then I’m not making any difference. So get off my fucking back.”

_**I think you hurt his feelings.** _

Wade hates it when one of the voices has a point. “Okay. Glad you have a conscience,” he mutters. “And yeah, the stuff you went through, doesn’t sound exactly easy.” It’s a half-assed, unvoiced apology if there ever was one, but it’s what he’s got at the moment.

“It wasn’t,” Nate agrees, tone clipped. “And what you went through--what you’re going through--it’s not easy either.” The hand on his knee gives a gentle squeeze. “But even when I was deep in my own crap, I didn’t let myself lose hope, Wade. Ever. For myself. For the people who depended on me.”

“That’s the difference,” Wade says darkly, although he puts a hand down on top of Nate’s. “I can’t afford to _have_ it. Ever.”

Nate frowns. “How can you keep going that way?”

“Figure I’m better off without it. I tried, twice, but the people I cared about died anyway.” His mom, when he was five. Vanessa. He doesn’t want to talk about them--doesn’t think he could get the words out. Too much pain and shame and guilt. “Can’t be disappointed if I never get my hopes up in the first place.”

_I take it back. Two counts of fridging. This is totally fictional._

“Was one of those people your kid’s mom?” Nate guesses, a shot in the dark and oh so incorrect.

Wade snorts. “Absolutely not. Vanessa and I were thinking about it--”

_Wow, you actually managed to say her name._

“--but we-- we never had a chance.” Wade’s surprised himself, that the words had just slipped out, so natural. “No, Ellie’s mom … I barely knew her. Total accident.”

_**Remember to always use birth control, kids.** _

Nate is looking startled again.

“Didn’t even know she existed for years then one day--BAM--bee tee dubs, you’re a dad, have fun with that. You can visit her once a week at her foster family’s if you stay out of jail.”

“Foster family’s?”

“Yeah, her mom's dead too. Ellie's been bouncing around the system ever since.”

_Definitely, absolutely fridging. What is wrong with authors?!_

_**Ssh, don’t antagonize them. They might get annoyed and stop writing us.** _

“That’s...” Nate seems to be having trouble coming up with the right thing to say. Wade wants to rub it in some more, tell him how there is no right thing to say for having your life systematically fall apart and go to shit every single time you try to get it right. Except some shred of decency stops him because Nate is still very carefully resting that one hand on Wade’s knee and he looks like he’s trying so hard to not fuck up what he says next.

“She’s with a good family right now,” Wade says roughly, ignoring the ache in his chest. “The Prestons may not like me much, but they seem to really care about Ellie." He paused. "They even asked me if they could adopt her," he says. It hurts, saying it out loud. Hurts thinking about it.

"What are you going to tell them?"

Wade opens his mouth to say _yes_ , but he finds he can't bear to say it out loud, the word catching in his throat like barbed wire. He settles for, "I don't know." The next confession hurts. Like stabbing himself with a knife made of words, once by having to hear it, twice by letting someone else hear it. "She deserves someone good like them, not ... like me. I don't have my shit together enough to keep her. She deserves better than my fucked up life and my fucked up head. Parents with steady jobs and a house and healthcare. A brother--the Prestons have one kid already, she gets to have a brother. A normal life." He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to will himself not to let tears leak out. The almost-calm he’s been feeling is falling away again, leaving only a gaping pit of emotions, raw and dangerous.

“Hey.” The bed shakes with the tremors of a body moving, Nate’s voice urgent/intent. His hand moves, settles on the join of shoulder and neck, solid and warm and heavy, the brush of a thumb pad against his earlobe gentle. “Hey,” he repeats, “look at me.”

Wade cracks an eye open, not trusting himself to do more.

Nate is kneeling naked in front of him, serious look on his face. His eyes are flickering over Wade’s face, imperceptible fast movements, like he’s trying to read all Wade’s intentions just from his expression.

“I’m glad you’re thinking of Ellie’s best interests. But that’s too pragmatic.”

_Prag-whatsit?_

_**Dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations.** _

_Oh fuck that._

Wade sniffles. “I can’t believe you’re calling me practical and sensible.”

“Yeah, me either,” Nate snorts, smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “But here’s the thing--she’s your kid. Practical has fuck-all to do with it. Kids want their dads. Whether they have money or not. Whether they live in a nice house or not. Whether you have problems or not. Kids want family. They want to know you care about them. They want you at their back. And if you care about her, you can’t just give her up.”

Wade can’t help it: he sobs, a great shuddering thing that he couldn’t have held back if an entire van full of mexican food and free cash was at stake. Nate tugs gently, metal hand coming up to join the flesh one at the back of his neck, urging him closer, and he doesn't want to resist. Instead he scoots forward, half in Nate’s lap, half leaning in, totally awkward, and lets himself grab Nate’s shoulders and just shake mostly-silently. He feels great big tears squelching out of his eyes and running down his nose and cheeks, dripping onto Nate’s skin, but he just sighs gently and pats at Wade’s back, making a soothing humming noise and not complaining at all about the gross wet mess that Wade’s making of his shoulder and chest.

It takes a while, letting all the grief and rage and anger and hurt out all at once, letting it just bleed out in tears, but eventually Wade feels it starting to ebb, feels the wet leaking out of his eyes slow.

Nate must feel it too, because he says, “Just promise me you’ll give yourself a chance. I admit I don’t know a whole lot about you yet, but anyone who tells my kid off so perfectly that I want to fuck him on the spot… Well. I think he must be pretty good dad material.”

_**Oh god, right in the praise kink.** _

Wade feels the words like a punch to the gut, warm and solid. Or maybe like a shot of something alcoholic, warmth spreading outward, tingly and intoxicating.

“Oh really? You liked that?” he says, shaky and muffled against skin wet with his own gross tears (and just _possibly_ a little snot).

Nate snorts, the warm hand on the back of his neck squeezing lightly for a moment. “You couldn’t tell from the running after you and the appreciative blow job?”

“Well, I mean, not really. If you want to date-or-whatever me, you gotta understand I’m pretty damn oblivious. Can’t be trusted to take a hint if it beats me over the head.”

Nate chuckles and Wade pushes away, sits up, wiping his nose on the back of one arm, even if that just moves the grossness problem to a new spot and doesn’t really solve anything.

“Can I call her up and dad-rant at her some more? I really like getting laid, and if that’s what it takes--”

“No,” Nate cuts him off with a snort, “you can’t. But I’m going to go take another shower, and you’re welcome to join me.”

"Are you saying there'll be shower sex?" Wade says hopefully, hopping off the bed and trailing after Nate.

"I'm saying we'll be naked together in a single shower stall," Nate replies, pausing at the entrance to the bathroom to take off his prosthetic again. "What do you think, genius?"

"Hm." Wade pretends to think it over, tapping one finger on his chin. "That's a toughy. I think you'll want help scrubbing your back. Probably with some fruity-smelling bodywash and a shocking pink louffah. Really let out your feminine side."

Nate snorts as he pulls open the glass door and steps into the shower. Wade really likes the way Nate snorts when he says something ridiculous. It's like this little punch of air, a mini explosion of breath, and all with a general air of amused disbelief, like he can't believe how stupid Wade is being _and likes it._

_He really shouldn't do that. You don't need the encouragement._

"You're projecting," Nate says shortly.

"So you're willing to scrub my back the way I'm fantasizing about?" he teases, following Nate in.

Nate gets the water going, then turns to pull Wade in, arm settling firmly around his waist as he kisses him soundly.

"That's not the part of you I'm thinking of rubbing down," he eventually clarifies.

"I mean, I'm flattered you'd be that generous, but I think foot massages are for serious relationship territory only and not exactly something you can do in the shower without someone falling over."

The sigh Nate gives is practically explosive, and he doesn’t bother trying to explain further, just kisses Wade again and lets his hand do the talking.

Which is how Wade comes for the second time that morning and the fourth time in twenty-four hours, pressed up against the tile with his hand overlapping Nate’s around both of their cocks and dangerously close to gasping Nate’s name as he comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined comics canon and movie canon here with my own ideas so I hope no one is too bent out of shape about that.
> 
> Can you spot more references to Cable & Deadpool #19? :3
> 
> *cough* Hello, discord server, I alluded to our headcanons about Stryfe’s skincare routine in a fic.


	10. Ride Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mood song for this chapter is _All Night_ by Walk the Moon.
> 
> Again, I don’t have mental health challenges, let me know if you do and feel my attempts at touching on it feel off-base.

Nate makes them each another cup of coffee after they're dressed, since apparently the first one hadn't done much good, and gets a pan heating with a little oil for eggs.

It’s a novelty, having someone else here in the condo with him. He’s used to making one cup of morning coffee, one breakfast. To hearing nothing but silence and the slight noise of his own movements. This morning, as Wade chatters away, feels like a welcome break from the quiet.

He sets Wade's mug on the bar counter, then watches in bemusement as he goes rooting through the cupboards.

"Ah ha!" the other finally exclaims, emerging with an unopened bag of spicy pork rinds.

Nate grimaces. "Hope must have left those here."

"I swear I love your kid," Wade says dreamily, wandering back to the bar stool where he tears open the crinkly plastic and proceeds to alternate coffee and pork rinds like this is acceptable breakfast food. "I want to meet her sometime when she's not trying to punch me."

"I don't introduce people to my kid unless I'm serious about them," Nate warns.

Wade sighs wistfully, chomps on another disgusting chip. "Yeah, makes sense," he concedes, looking like he's saying goodbye to the idea of ever seeing Hope again.

"Give it a couple months," Nate informs him. "Six is usually standard." Then grins at Wade's slack-jawed reaction.

He actually seems to have rendered Wade speechless, so he continues talking as he cracks four eggs into the pan. "I know we got a bit _distracted_ , so let's bring it back around. I need you to remember what I said. I don't know if you're used to people putting you down or running you off or being shallow or what, but I'm not them. Please don't put yourself down and stop trying to run me off. It's insulting to both of us."

Wade stares at him for way longer than seems necessary, the only sound the eggs gently bubbling in the pan. When he finally finds his voice, it's to say, "Are we actually having an emotionally mature discussion about needs? Sober and not in bed? I'm not sure I can handle this."

Nate snorts, sees a flicker of a smile cross Wade's face. "Yeah, we are."

More silence, Wade's eyes flicking across his face like he's searching for some sort of answer. He finally clears his throat. "Okay. I'll try. By the way, the voices say they like you."

Now it's Nate's turn to blink in surprise and not know what to say. He considers while flipping the eggs.

"Is that noteworthy?"

Wade shrugs. "They don't usually like anyone, including me. They're kind of assholes. Shut up, you are. Uh huh, that's what I thought." The other snickers and takes a swallow of coffee.

"These voices," Nate says carefully, getting plates out of the cupboards and two forks from a drawer, "they going to cause any problems?" He doesn't miss the white knuckle grip Wade has on his mug, no matter how nonchalantly he's speaking.

Another shrug. "Not really. They're distracting, but it's not like they tell me to kill people or anything like that. I just have my own built-in asshole Twitter feed commenting on everything I do."

Nate considers that as he plates the eggs. Scatters a pinch of salt over all four. Sets one in front of Wade, who grabs his fork and starts shoveling it in.

"What about not being in touch with reality?" he asks.

Silence except for enthusiastic eating, to the point he thinks Wade somehow didn't hear him, until Wade mutters, "Happens sometimes. Never done anything dangerous to anyone but myself."

"Can you get meds for it?"

Wade gives a mirthless laugh. "That costs money. It's not like I have health insurance."

Nate considers this. He really doesn't know what to do with Wade's confession, and he supposes there really isn't anything _to_ do. He’d like to fix this, swoop in and do something about it, but … he doesn’t get to run Wade’s life. God knows his therapist used to drill that idea into his head practically every session until she finally almost got Nate to believe it. So either he likes Wade as he is, weird and aggravating and a few bullets short of a full clip, or he doesn't. And, thinking about that, … he can’t deny that he absolutely likes Wade.

Wade has finished off the two eggs and now he's trying to scrape the last drips off the plate with his fork. "It's not pancakes," the other says thoughtfully, "but this is good."

"You can make us pancakes next time if you're so into those," Nate says, and then watches Wade actually _blush_ , a mottled darker look to his scarred cheeks. Nate had no idea why the idea of making post-sex breakfast is blush-worthy, but it's cute. "And if you get one of those head spaces and I can help, let me know."

Wade nods sharply, chomps one more pork rind, tosses back the rest of his coffee, and stands sharply.

"Clear your dishes, you're not five," Nate tells him preemptively. After having to remind Wade to hang up his bath towel and clean up his trash this morning, Nate is under no illusions about Wade's level of voluntary cleanliness. At least Wade doesn't seem particularly put out by Nate's telling him what to do. Yet. Nate's sure that's something else they'll have to figure out if this _thing_ continues.

After Wade sticks his stuff in the dishwasher and, after another reminder, puts the pork rinds away, it's clearly time for this sleepover to end. And just as clearly they're both avoiding it.

Finally Wade sighs and starts pulling on his shoes. "Well, it's been real, but I'm gonna go catch a bus back home."

"A bus?" Nate says in surprise.

"Car broke down yesterday, I had to hitch a ride up here. Guess I could call Dopinder again," he mutters.

"Let me drive you," Nate says impulsively.

And that's how Nate ends up leading Wade down to the sub-basement resident garage and having to listen to endless remarks about every single resident's car and how stupidly expensive they are--he's right--and how many people could have gotten health care or a living wage or food with that money--he's right again--until they finally get to Nate's ride.

Wade stops dead in his tracks and stares at Nate's ten year-old Land Rover. Even if it's not new, he's kept the vehicle in excellent condition, silvery-gray paint looking just as good as when he bought it. Slowly Wade turns his head to look at Nate disbelief.

"Truck nuts?"

Nate just smirks at him and lets a hint of a cocky swagger into his step as he heads around to the driver side, unlocks the doors and slides into the driver's seat.

"Oh no, no no, no you don't," Wade splutters indignantly behind him, then yanking open the passenger door. "Are you seriously proud of yourself?!"

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nate says mildly.

“You have a giant pair of silver balls dangling off the back of this thing,” Wade says, sounding scandalized, as he slides into the passenger seat and yanks on the seatbelt. “Inappropriate sexual and body humor is _my_ thing. How dare you!”

Nate’s chuckling the whole way up out of the parking garage and feeling an unfamiliar smile curving his mouth the whole way to the freeway. It’s probably helped by the fact that Wade keeps grumbling about ‘truck nuts’ and ‘it’s like goddamn Transformers porn’ and then a running monologue on all the Transformers movies to date and exactly how each one sucked or was awesome. As they take the entrance ramp to the freeway, heading south, Nate finally interrupts the monologue to ask, “So where am I going?”

So Wade gleefully pokes at the nav system on the Land Rover until he gets it to do his bidding, and then slouches bonelessly like he’s in an armchair, not in a moving vehicle, and keeps talking.

And talking.

And talking.

The topics seem to range anywhere from local gripes like traffic and road construction and the homeless situation to politics, random animals, movies, television, memes, something called ‘ay oh three,’ and more. Wade does pause occasionally and expectantly, waiting for him to respond to a question or follow-up on an obvious lead-in, but mostly he carries the conversation on his own.

It’s one of the quickest twenty-plus minutes of Nate’s life. He drives with his usual slightly hostile intensity and disregard for posted speed limits, enjoying the mild thrill of carefully snaking through midday traffic with the purr of Wade’s rough voice washing over him. The only thing detracting from the drive is that he’s going to be dropping Wade off at the end.

Jesus, he’s got it bad.

Finally they're off the freeway and Wade and the GPS are guiding him down streets that are getting progressively smaller and more residential, as well as progressively more run-down. It’s a sea of houses getting smaller and smaller, the number of cars parked out front of the houses that have rusting paint or that are over 20 years old steadily increasing. Wade is also getting progressively more twitchy--the flow of conversation develops irregular pauses and then finally stops, and he’s bouncing one of his legs while staring out the side window and chewing nervously at his lip, fingers tapping at the door’s armrest.

And then the GPS tells him he’s at his destination, so he checks the house number and pulls over and turns off the engine in front of the shabbiest, most run-down single-story house on the street. The tiny front yard is decorative gravel instead of grass, with a single tree and a few shrubs and some faded plastic flamingos and a lot of baby weeds that seem very healthy and happy in the wetness of early spring. The house itself looks like no one handy has owned it in at least two decades and it ought to come with a lead paint warning label.

Wade takes a deep breath.

“Well, here we are,” he says with false enthusiasm. “Real Americana. Hope you’re enjoying the sights.” And then he’s pulling open the door and hopping out, slamming it behind him.

Nate grimaces and pulls open his door and climbs out as well, coming around the vehicle to where Wade is standing, looking indecisive, like he can’t decide if he should just make a break for the house or stay to talk.

“Wade,” he says softly, and gets the other’s full and instant attention.

“You sure you’re not freaking out?” Wade blurts out. “Not having second thoughts when confronted with my actual life?”

“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I’m really not that shallow. And remember, you can’t run me off that easily?” That gets him a snort, which he ignores. “I had fun--”

“Hard not to have fun with that many orgasms,” Wade interrupts derisively.

He sighs. “Shut up, you fucker, I’m trying to be nice.”

That gets him a grin, quick and real, and the tension eases just a little bit.

“I had fun, and not just because of the sex. Can I see you again next weekend?”

“See me again? Is that a euphemism for more sex?”

“Probably,” Nate says, because honestly he’s _really_ hoping to get Wade back in his bed, “but I thought we could go out somewhere too. A real date, no punching involved unless you want it. You could pick the place,” he adds impulsively.

“How about billiards? Or bowling?” Wade says instantly. “If you need a hand at them, I could help you hold your shaft or balls.”

“Jesus,” Nate groans, rolling his eyes so hard it hurts while Wade is laughing like a hyena.

While Wade is still cackling, the peeling front door of the house bangs open and a short, older black woman wearing sunglasses steps into the doorway.

“Wade,” she shouts, sounding aggravated, “is that you?”

“Well, you’re going to look pretty dumb, yelling that at the street if it isn’t me,” Wade calls back.

She grimaces. “You didn’t come home last night, idiot. I thought you got thrown in jail or shot or something.”

“No, even better, Al,” he yells back, sounding absolutely gleeful. “Paint _this_ picture on the inside of your brain: I got _laid_.”

“Jesus Christ, I did _not_ need to know that,” the old lady grumbles, turning in place and feeling her way back inside in a way that makes Nate suspect she’s low vision or blind.

The door bangs shut behind her and Wade helpfully supplies, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the place where she’d been, “That’s Al, my landlady.”

“You live with her?” Nate asks, then mentally curses himself for asking a question for which the answer is obvious. Luckily Wade just goes with it.

“Yep. I get room, no board, and complementary old-lady smell. Plus Al’s amazing company. She only almost shot me twice so far.”

Nate drags his thoughts back to the previous topic by sheer force of will. “Ignoring your dubious choice of roommates, yes, we could do bowling or billiards next weekend.”

“Oh. Okay. Sounds good,” Wade says, like he’s surprised Nate is actually taking him up on it. Then, sounding endlessly flabbergasted by this concept, “You’re actually okay with being seen in public with me?”

Nate sighs. Then steps into Wade’s personal space. He’s tipping his head back and going up on the balls of his feet just as Wade bends his head down. It’s a surprisingly sweet kiss, given the past eighteen hours or so, slow and gently. Nate settles his hands--a little awkwardly in the case of his prosthetic one--on Wade’s hips and he feels Wade’s hands slide up around his face and into his hair, tentatively, carefully.

When they finally part, Nate stays right where he is, enjoying the feel of Wade under his hand, the feeling of the other fiddling with the strands of his hair.

“Of course I am. Two things though. One, we’ll need to talk about how to split the tab or not split it. Two, … find yourself a clinic and get tested. I want to do things to that pretty cock and ass without a condom in the way.”

Because he’s standing so close, it’s easy to see the way Wade’s pupils blow wide instantly as he sucks in a breath, see up close the surprised, hungry expression. He grins. Goes back up on his toes to peck a kiss on Wade’s slightly parted lips.

He hopes that bringing up splitting the cost in some way is the right decision. But Wade seems so concerned about money and the differences between them, this is going to have to be an ongoing, frequent discussion. He’d meant what he’d said, he’s happy to just spend money on Wade, it isn’t an issue for him, but he gets the distinct feeling that Wade has a prickly streak of pride that’s going to try to brush off a gift or a hand up.

Doesn’t stop him from wanting to give one, but that’s a problem he’ll deal with as it comes up.

Wade finally finds his voice again. “I don’t get you,” he says in a wondering tone. “You can say that with a straight face. I’m weapons grade ugly, and you can still say things like that and look like you mean it.”

“Wade--” Nate starts in warning.

“I’m not putting myself down. This is objective _fact_ , Nate. Everyone I meet, their first reaction is trying to get as far away from me as possible. Sometimes they even _gag_.”

“Maybe they’re spooked by what they’re not used to. Or maybe they’re morons. You’re not ugly, you’re just different. And I’m going to keep calling you handsome until you realize I believe it.”

There’s that mottled, dark blush again, and he could _really_ get addicted to making it appear.

“Also, I’m going to keep refusing to let you chase me off for stupid reasons,” he adds. “I don’t know if you’re used to people running out on you or telling you you’re not good enough or what, but congratulations, I’m more fucking mature than that. And so help me if you make an age joke, I’m going to punch you.”

Wade pauses, mouth open, then wisely shuts it again. Nods and seems to be thinking.

“I really don’t get that either,” he finally says in that same wondering tone, “but okay. It sounds nice. I mean, sort of controlling, possible red flag territory. But nice too."

Nate sighs. “Look, I'm not a saint. Pretty sure you're going to have to tell me to back off or shut up sometimes, tell me I don't get to have things my way."

"Like how wet towels don't have to be hung up zero point two seconds after you're done using them and how there's no point to picking up dirty laundry, it's going to be the same amount of clean or dirty whether it's on the floor or in the hamper?"

Nate sighs again. "Yeah, like that, and you're wrong on both counts. But I meant more like…" He hesitates.

"Tell you to stop trying to control my life?" Wade guesses shrewdly, fingers gently playing with the short hair near the nape of Nate’s neck.

"Yeah, that," Nate admits.

"Luckily for you," Wade says lightly, "I'm perfectly willing to kick you in the balls and walk out if you try to run my life or treat me like your property."

Nate winces, equally pained by the thought of personal injury, the idea of Wade jettisoning him, and the unfortunate truth that he knows he’s capable of those infractions. “I’ll remember that,” he promises.

“Good, because I like you too, asshole,” Wade says playfully, thumbs now smoothing forward over the hinge of Nate’s jaw.

Nate groans and kisses him again and Wade meets him equally enthusiastically. It feels like his heart is hammering against his ribs making him short of breath and giddy. He wants this feeling to last, wants to draw it out forever, but realistically knows there’s no telling if it will stick around, settle and mature and evolve and survive both of them being opinionated and abrasive and flawed. But for now it blazes shockingly white-hot and new.

He’s going to try not to get burned or burn someone else.

When the kiss finally ends, Nate ignores everything he’d rather do and instead regretfully lifts his hands and steps back. Wade gives a breathy little sigh, looking disappointed.

“I’m going to stop standing out here on the sidewalk. We look like idiot teenagers making out and mooning over each other instead of a couple grown-ass men,” he says dryly as he backs away and then heads around the Range Rover to the driver’s side. “I’ll see you next weekend. We can text and work out the details.”

Wade’s expression brightens--far more than Nate feels is truly reasonable given the very bland topic--and he says, “Gotcha, keep it lowkey. You and me, baby, we’ll text.” He gives some obnoxious finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

Nate sighs and climbs into the vehicle and Wade turns and slouches up the walkway to the house. He looks back as he steps through the front door, so Nate gives him a little wave, feeling like a complete idiot, and Wave gives a little wave back, and then the door closes behind him.

Well. That’s anticlimactic.

Nate starts the engine, punches in the address for his condo, and then pulls away from the curb. It feels strangely quiet inside the car. Calm, yes, but he finds himself missing Wade’s chatter. He tells himself sternly that it’s healthy to spend time apart from a new romantic interest, not to get in too deep too quick. That the time _not_ talking with Wade is going to make next weekend that much better.

He only gets a block and a half before his phone dings three times in his pocket. The nav system helpfully informs him he has texts from Wade W. Wilson, so he pulls over to the curb of the residential street he’s on and pulls the phone out of his pocket.

_so is it ok if i text u about stuff other than this weekend?  
and by text u mean sext too right?_

Then there’s a string of emojis. Nate is sufficiently aware of texting slang--mostly because of trying to stay connected with Hope’s generation--that the significance of the eggplant, fist, little water droplets, and the weird little emoji face are definitely _not_ lost on him.

He snorts. Taps out a reply.

_Yes, you can text, you horny bastard, but I’m driving right now, so don’t expect a reply._

He hesitates for a few seconds, not sure if he should encourage Wade, but then adds a quick line.

_Save the sexting for tonight._

Wade’s reply is an instant string of exclamation marks, some more emojis, and then an actual sentence, assuming that something that ignores all rules of punctuation and spelling and capitalization can be called a sentence.

_omg ur the best nate_

Nate laughs and tosses the phone on the seat next to him. He pulls away from the curb and drives back to Bellevue, phone happily pinging away to chase the silence away.

It doesn’t feel like an ending at all, only a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter, the main story (and the E-rated content) comes to an end. There are two epilogue chapters coming up though, so please stick around for those. :)


	11. Six Months Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONGRATS, YOU GET HOPE POV. I’M NOT SURE I HAVE ANY CLUE HOW TO WRITE HOPE POV.
> 
> I'm sorry today’s update was a bit late. I decided the fight scene needed some edits, but first I had to deal with real life (apartment searching). But now here it is, better late than never. I hope I amuse someone other than myself with this fluff and Hope indignation.

Hope’s not sure why Nate asked her to meet him at the park of all places. Sure, it’s a nice morning, the late-summer sun still in the early morning phase of being pleasant instead of oppressively warm, but her dad’s never been that much of a let’s-meet-at-the-park person. Sure, they lived in the condo within blocks of here for a lot of her teenage years and they’d definitely come take walks, but it wasn’t a spot where they _hung out_. That’s a level of casual relaxation that her dad’s never really been good at.

But yet, here she is, hanging around at the playground, waiting for him. It’s early enough that the crowds of parents and small children aren’t thick yet, so Hope wanders over and sits down at an unoccupied four-sided picnic table. It’s past the time when Dad is supposed to be here, and she’s starting to feel irritated, so after five minutes of staring at kids screaming excitedly as they dash away from the water jets that periodically surge upward from the pavement and other kids begging their parents to play with them on the see-saw and similar, she gets bored and hops to her feet again.

Wandering out to the playground seems like the best idea for killing time. It’s fun to walk out there anyway, since the ‘ground’ is actually padded playground rubber, soft and squishy underfoot. It’s a shame the playground hadn’t been here when she was growing up, but it’s a recent addition to the park. She pauses near the swings, considering whether she wants to try sitting in one and pretending to be five again, when suddenly some kid goes tearing past her and makes it to the equipment first.

The kid--an elementary aged girl with darker skin and a purple shirt and shorts--pushes off enthusiastically and then starts pumping, getting higher and higher by the second. Hope is standing a bit further back, bemused, watching this, when the girl shouts, “Watch out, lady! I want to jump!”

Hope blinks, checks around her, confirms that she’s the only one who could possibly be getting called ‘lady’ here, and takes a couple steps to one side. Then the little girl is at the height of her swing and bailing out, flying through the air, and coming down with a solid _smack_ of sneakers right where Hope had been standing.

“Didja see that?” the girl exclaims, straightening and grinning up at her.

“I did,” she says with a smile. “Pretty cool. But,” she glances around and then stage whispers, “I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

“Daddy says rules aren’t worth following unless they make sense,” the kid says promptly. “And I know I can do it. And this is really padded.” She nudges at the rubber ground with her toe.

“Sure,” Hope says, nodding, “but what about other kids? If they see you and get inspired, will they be able to do it safely?”

The little girl frowns, an adorably serious expression for such a small face, framed by bits of flyaway hair from her dark, pulled-back ponytail. “If I didn’t know how to do something, I’d be careful at first. So they should be too. It’s not my fault if they do something dumb.”

Hope shrugs, because she can’t really fault the kid for that logic.

“Want to see me do it again?” the kid asks enthusiastically.

“Sure,” Hope says, because she really doesn’t have anything else to do.

She watches the kid chatter on while she swings and does two more jumps, cheering enthusiastically at the right times, a slightly bemused smile on her face. Then the girl suddenly yells “Daddy!” and bails out of the swing and streaks off past Hope. She turns to watch and sees the kid run up to a guy wearing a Sounders cap, a red long-sleeved tee, and jeans, and she freezes.

“Hey, Ellie-Bellie, you were rocking that swing!” the guy is exclaiming, lifting the laughing girl to swing her around and then give her a hug. But Hope recognizes him. It’s not like he’s forgettable, because his face looks more like leather than skin, bumpy and shiny and very obviously _not_ what human skin ought to look like. It’s the guy her dad used months ago, the guy who was super-gross and hit on her, just to get her to think about breaking up with Emil. He’s grinning at the little girl and setting her down, and she’s running off to another piece of playground equipment.

Hope is striding forward without a second thought

She’s had a lot of time to think since breaking off her relationship with Emil, and this guy has featured in a lot of her late night self-reflection sessions. She’s actually glad her dad’s stupid, manipulative setup showed her something important, and she get to chew him out thoroughly, accept his apology, and forgive him.

But she’s used _this_ guy as a convenient scapegoat in her thoughts, someone easy to blame for how things went down that day. He was gross. He was ugly. How dare he let her dad talk him into it. How dare he lecture her, like he knew her, like he knew what he was talking about. It had been easy to let her irritation fall squarely on him, since she thought she’d never see him again.

And yet here he is.

She walks right up to tap him on the shoulder.

He swings around, and then his eyes get rather comically large.

“Oh, um, hey there. Guessing you’re wondering why I’m here,” he starts, hands coming up in front of him, palms out, backing away slowly.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Hope says, eyes narrowed. “Because that’s a pretty big coincidence. Except I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“That’s very smart of you,” the man says approvingly. “Things are way more likely to have a reason than not. For example, the reason why you’re here and I’m here and... Um... Please don’t punch me right now?”

“Tell me that reason?” she asks pointedly, hands on her hips as she glares, ignoring the way his eyes are flicking from her to something behind her.

“The reason is, I wanted you two to meet,” says a deep voice behind her and then a hand settles on her shoulder. “Please don’t punch him,” her dad murmurs, sounding amused.

Hope gapes at him, then at the man, then back at her dad.

“Dad? What in the-- Are you _friends_ now?!”

“Oh yeah,” the gross guy says, with what Hope can only think of as a leer. “We’re totally ‘friends.’” His hands make some air quotes as he says it that create far more questions than they answer.

Her dad honest-to-god facepalms as he steps past her to stand arms-length from both of them. “Wade, that is _not_ helping. Hope, I want you to meet Wade. I’d tell you he’s not as bad as he seems, but honestly? What you see is what you get. Hopefully you like him the way he is.”

Wade sticks out a hand in an obvious invitation for a handshake. “I grow on people like a fungus,” he says cheerfully. “Sorry I was a jerk that one time, although to be fair, it was all Nate’s fault. Also, thanks for the pork rinds.”

Hope puts her hand out automatically to shake while she’s still trying to figure out what the fuck this guy--Wade--means by that nonsequitur and feeling like she just got conversational whiplash, then instantly regrets it, a surge of repulsion turning her stomach. Wade’s hand clasps her briefly--and her fears turn out to be unfounded, his hand is warm and dry and only a little weirdly smooth from all the strange scar tissue--and then releases.

“Nice to meet you,” she says on autopilot. Then, “Dad, _why_ are you introducing me to this jerk?”

Her dad sighs, then draws himself up ramrod straight that way he does when he’s steeling himself to say something difficult, hands clasping behind his back.

“Because we’re dating,” he admits.

Hope’s jaw sags.

“Excuse you,” Wade says in an affronted tone. “We’re not just dating. We’re _serious_ dating. You said you only introduce people to Hope if you’re serious about them.”

“You’ve never introduced me to any of your dates before,” Hope says in shock before she thinks better of it.

Her dad sighs and nods, and now it’s the ugly guy’s turn to gape at him.

“Really?” he squeaks a few seconds later.

“Yep,” her dad says with a tired smile. “Just you.”

“Oh. Um. That’s. I mean.” This Wade guy seems at a loss for words, and somehow that’s making her dad grin.

She sympathizes with this Wade guy, because she can’t think of a thing to say either.

“Why don’t we grab frozen yogurt?” her Dad says to smooth over the stunned silence. “That should be something Ellie will like.”

That seems to snap Wade out of it. “Ellie!” he calls. “We’re gonna go!”

The little girl swings her head around, then back to a boy she’d been playing with to say a few words, then she hops off the play structure and trots over.

“Okay, Daddy. Where are we going? Oh, it’s you,” she says to Hope. Then, “You know these people?” she asks curiously, giving them both a considering look.

“Sure do,” the other guy says cheerfully. “Ellie, this is Hope. Hope, this is my daughter Ellie. Hope is Nate’s daughter, and Nate is this guy right here and I like him.” He reaches over to grab her dad’s hand and tug him closer so that they’re standing side-by-side. “And we’re all going to walk over to the Yogurt Land at the edge of the park and Nate’s going to get you a huge cup of frozen yogurt and toppings to try to buy your affections.”

Her dad rolls his eyes.

Which is how Hope ends up sitting outside of the Belleuve Yogurt Land, between her dad and Ellie and across from Wade, like the four points of the compass at their round table. Her dad had paid for all of them, getting a rather sedate bowl of vanilla topped with fruit for himself. She’d gone with chocolate ice cream and peanut butter cups and chocolate syrup. Ellie has vanilla and chocolate swirled with gummy bears. And Wade … Ellie can see four flavors of frozen yogurt and there’s every kind of primary colored candy that the shop has scooped over the top.

Wade is making inane conversation basically with the air, whether he gets a response or not, while Hope and her dad are quiet. Ellie seems to take Hope’s silence as an opportunity and starts quizzing her and thankfully Wade finally shuts up. How old are you? What’s your favorite color? I’m nine and I’m going to be in fourth grade soon. Where do you live? What do you do? Are you going to school? As the round of twenty questions keeps going, Hope finds she’s enjoying talking to the little girl, even if the kid has the unfortunate luck to be Wade’s daughter. She keeps glancing back and forth between the two of them as she talks, and she sees enough facial resemblance that she has to give up her hope for Ellie’s sake that that Ellie is adopted. And then--

“Daddy, how did you meet Nate and Hope?” Ellie asks, licking chocolate frozen yogurt off her spoon.

“Oh, funny story,” Wade answers with his mouth full. “Nate hired me to be a jerk to Hope and she nearly kicked my-- beat me up. By the way, I totally want a rematch,” he says as an aside to Hope. She glares. “And then Nate and I got to know each other better and magic happened.”

Her dad snorts. “Magic?”

“Magical healing c--” Wade starts to singsong and her dad claps a hand over his mouth so fast she barely sees the movement, as she nearly chokes on a bite of frozen yogurt and then coughs until there are tears in her eyes. Ellie just looks puzzled.

“Wade…” her dad growls warningly and receives some innocently batted eyelids in return. “Don’t be a brat in front of our kids,” he adds. That actually makes the brown eyes flick to Ellie and then back to her dad, and then after a brief hesitation, he nods. Her dad warily takes his hand away.

Ellie has been watching this with as much interest as Hope has been watching it with horror and now she pipes up, “This is yummy, Mr. Nate, thank you. And I’m glad you can get Daddy to behave. That does seem pretty magical.”

“See! I was right!” Wade exclaims and then dissolves into laughter as a blush spreads over her dad’s cheeks. Hope hides her face in her hands and wishes she could make Wade never talk again, because it feels like everything he says is horrible.

She can’t even find enough appetite to finish her frozen yogurt.

Ellie starts chattering about various things, Hope resolutely tries not to think about anything involving her dad’s sex life, and they all finish, stand up, toss their trash, and move out onto the sidewalk.

“Daddy, can we go back to the playground?” Ellie asks hopefully as they stand there in the sun. It’s starting to have some real heat to it, streaming down out of the sky and threatening to turn the parking lot into an oven by noon.

“Sure,” Wade says. “Just give us adults a minute, okay?”

He’s standing next to her dad and the back of their hands are brushing against one another, just the slightest of PDAs. Ellie gives a put-upon sigh but doesn’t protest as Wade glances at her dad.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Think I’ll head home. Need to hit the gym today,” her dad says, but his fingers capture Wade’s for a quick squeeze.

The briefest expression flits across the ugly guy’s face, something fond and soft, and then it’s gone again. He leans over to lay a loud, smacking kiss on her dad’s lips, then says, “Okay, see ya later, Nate. Come on, Ellie,” and saunters back the way they’d come, toward the park.

Hope watches them go with disbelief, then turns to give her dad a piercing look.

“I hope you’re planning to explain,” she says menacingly.

Her dad puts his hands up, palms out, placatingly. “Nothing to explain. Wade’s not _wrong_ about what he said, even if he made it sound like a joke. I hired him, we discovered we had some really good chemistry, he did the job for me, and it got more intense the longer we were together.”

“Chemistry. _Intense_ ,” Hope echoes disbelievingly.

The grin that crosses her dad’s face is mischievous. “Trust me, kiddo, you don’t want to know. There was a hell of a lot of sex involved.”

“Ugh, no, absolutely not, _no_ details,” she quickly agrees, making a horrified face. “But, he’s just so…” She trails off, suddenly realizing that criticizing her dad’s boyfriend to her dad is just going to make them both feel worse.

“Abrasive? Ugly? A guy with no future who starts fights for money?” her dad says pointedly, watching her face with laser focus. “Look, I know Wade is … a lot. You might not believe it, but he actually kept bringing up those same reasons why we shouldn’t be together. I shot him down on them and I’m going to shoot you down too, so just save us both the trouble and don’t try. I like who he is under all the pretenses and bullshit. I’d really appreciate it if you gave him a chance,” he finishes softly, “because he means a lot to me.”

Hope tries to keep glaring, but in the face of her dad’s sincere, very-obviously-intentional puppy dog eyes, she finally relents. “Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll give him a chance. Because you asked.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” The smile crinkles the crows feet around his eyes and makes her uncomfortably aware both that her dad is well over forty and only getting older and that he seems _genuinely_ happy right now.

“No problem, Dad,” she sighs, and opens her arms for the hug she knows is coming, even as he steps forward.

Her dad doesn’t really hug with both arms so much as he hugs with one bicep and the other arm, but Hope has never cared. Not since she was little, not even when her friends asked her whispered, giggling, nervous questions about her dad and why he only had one arm and one eye. His prosthetics have evolved over the years, gotten better, faster, cooler looking, more expensive, more realistic, and she doesn’t care. No matter what he looks like, the way he’s hugged her has never changed.

“I love you, Dad,” she whispers.

“Love ya too,” he whispers back fondly, pecking a kiss on the top of her hair. “And now I’m going to go work out so my boyfriend continues to find me amazingly sexy.”

“ _Dad!_ ” she squawks in exasperation, letting go of the hug. “I do _not_ need to know that!”

“Later, kiddo,” he says with a grin. “Feel free to stop by in a couple hours if you want.” And then he turns and strides away.

She watches him go. And then gets an idea.

It’s a short walk to the park, and it’s cooler there without the baking heat of blacktop, with the shade of the trees and the mist from the spray park and the cool of the grass. She finds Wade right where they’d started, on the playground with Ellie, chasing her around the playstructure and pretending to be some kind of unkillable space zombie. There’s a lot of growling and _raaaurgh_ ing and moaning about eating spleens. Ellie and the other kids of a variety of ages are squealing and shrieking and apparently having an incredible time. The parents on the sidelines of the playground only look mildly horrified and like they’re barely controlling their desire grab their kids and leave.

She watches this for several minutes before Wade happens to glance up and see her. There’s a second of direct eye contact and then he turns back to the kids and begs out of the game because he’s tired, fields a couple more pretend laser attacks, then turns and lopes over to where she’s standing in the shade the trees with her arms crossed belligerently.

“You said you wanted a rematch?” she says without preamble and watches his face break into a full-on maniacal grin.

Neither of them bothers with niceties like waiting to see if the other person is ready. Wade just raises his fists and keeps coming and she shifts into a defensive stance, jumping out of the way of a couple punches and chops and then darting in for a fast jab to his side, a punch that he blocks, and then she’s leaped back out of range again. Or what she thinks is out of range--he tries a roundhouse kick that has her jumping back again to avoid getting walloped.

She suddenly realizes that the last time they’d fought, he’d been fighting defensively. Then it hadn’t mattered that his arms and legs were longer than hers, because he hadn’t been lashing out with them. This is … quite a bit different. She can still fight him, he still has to hurriedly block her attacks, but she’s have to do a lot of ducking and weaving to keep from getting clocked.

Out of curiosity, she tries one of her dad’s and her favorite moves, and Wade slips into the pattern of it without the slightest pause, block, chop, block, jab, pivot away.

“You’ve been sparring with Dad,” she accuses.

“‘Course I have,” Wade says agreeably, throwing a punch at her head. “We don’t just sit around in bed all day.”

“Gross,” she hisses as she ducks and grabs his arm at the same time and uses the momentum to throw him, although he rolls on the grass and is up again before she can take advantage of it. “I don’t like you,” she snaps as they go back to circling each other, each looking for an easy opening.

“Look, I already apologized for the hitting-on-you thing, it was all fake anyway, and you should go yell at Nate about it instead, it was his idea.”

“I’m not talking about that,” she snarls, throwing a punch angrily without thinking carefully enough and paying for it, backing away wincing from the strength of the block and the blow she catches to one shoulder. “I don’t like _you_.”

“You don’t even know me,” Wade says dismissively, making some light jabs that she easily knocks aside. “How can you not like me if you’ve been around me for less than an hour? I have _hidden depths_.” Even he sounds like he doesn’t actually believe it.

“You look like trouble,” Hope snaps. “I don’t want you dragging Dad into whatever you get into. I don’t want you dragging Dad into _anything_. If you hurt him, I’m going to track you down and make you regret ever meeting him!”

“Usually it’s the dads giving the shovel talk to boyfriends of their daughters, not the daughters giving it to boyfriends of the dads,” Wade says mildly, and then he attacks.

It’s a flurry of movement and Hope has the dismayed thought that this guy is better than she’s giving him credit for and then she’s going down hard on her side on the grass.

She scrambles quickly to her feet, but Wade doesn’t try to attack while she’s down, just stands there with his head cocked a little to one side.

“You seem really angry,” he observes. “Like _political pundit seeing a disagreeing viewpoint_ level of angry. What are you afraid of?”

The words hit her harder than any of his punches have. He’s _right_ and acknowledging it makes the fear bubble up bright and dangerous.

“That’s right, I’m angry!” she seethes, and aims a kick right at Wade’s groin. He yelps and leaps back out of her range, curling down over his crotch protectively, even though she doesn’t connect, and she takes the opportunity to chop his arm right on a nerve, feels mean satisfaction to hear him yell in pain and see the arm go limp.

“What am I afraid of? I’m afraid of losing my dad! You have no right to… to… try to take him from me!” she yells, keeping her stance wide, looking for an opening. Wade is shuffling back, although there’s a limit to how far he can go because there’s a tree behind him. It makes her irrationally angry that he’s slipped into her dad’s defensive stance, the arm that she _hadn’t_ temporarily taken out of commission raised palm out around face level.

“I’m not taking anything or anyone from you,” Wade says through gritted teeth, shaking the other arm, grimacing as he incompletely flexes the fingers, obviously still not in control of the extremity. “I’m not after his money, I’m not trying to stop him from living his life. I just…” He glances around, checking on the surroundings. She spares a glance around as well. They seem to have drawn attention, a bunch of parents are giving them panicked looks and moving their kids further away from where they are, but since it’s the center of upper class everything-is-fine land and both of them are white, no one is calling the cops quite yet, although their hands are hovering over their pockets like they’re considering it. Then Wade is looking back at her, not even angry, looking more like he’s pleading with her.

Unfortunately for this guy, she’s been learning from her dad since she was old enough to strike a martial arts pose, _and_ she knows how to get through her dad’s defenses. She does that now, duck and pivot and then she has his arm pinned between her arm and side, forearm pressing against his throat and shoving him back against the tree.

“Tell me one good reason I should care,” she hisses.

This close, she can see his face far too well. Scarred texture, surprisingly normal brown eyes, stubborn expression.

“I just want a chance,” he gasps, not even trying to struggle. “Nate treats me like a human being. Like I’m not just some loser. He thinks I’m worth it, that I can be better, and I’m _trying_ , but it’s hard. But you know what? I know who comes first for him, and it’s not me. It’s _you_. So if you want, you can torpedo this thing between Nate and me. Blow it up like like a Space X launch gone wrong. And I won’t be able to do anything about it. But he means a lot to me, so can you please just give me a chance? I can’t promise I won’t screw it up, but I’ll try really hard not to.”

Unbidden her dad’s words echo from memory. _I’d really appreciate it if you gave him a chance, because he means a lot to me._

It pours water on the fire. Yeah, she’s afraid of what this unknown stranger is going to do with her dad, and yeah, she wishes she could make this stop … but obviously she can’t. They’re acting kind of--she almost shudders as she thinks it--adorably _cute_ together. And they’re both telling her the same thing: ‘he means a lot to me.’

She sighs, the urge to make this guy hurt easing just enough. She lets go and steps back, and Wade takes a deep, reflexive breath and then dissolves into a coughing fit. She ignores him while he finishes and tries to flex his arm--it seems to be getting feeling and control back now--and instead brushes at her clothes, knocking off a bit of grass and dust. When she looks back at Wade, she sees he’s relaxing fractionally as he watches her.

“I can’t believe you two,” she grumbles. “You’re both acting stupidly in love and I hate it. Okay. I’ll give you a chance, but _only_ because my dad asked me to. And I still don’t like you.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Wade says with a shrug.

There’s an excited yell from the playground, and they half turn to see Ellie excitedly clapping and hooting, like she’d just watched an amazing WWE match, then waving her arms at them.

“And also because your kid is super cute,” Hope concedes.

Wade beams. “She is,” he agrees fondly. “Want to go watch her rule the playground with me?” he adds cautiously.

Hope glares at him suspiciously. She’s not sure if he really is trying to be friendly or if this is some sort of act. She still doesn’t like him, she still doesn’t trust him, but she _might_ be able to not hate him. “Alright,” Hope finally says. “For a few minutes. But only if you tell me what you meant about pork rinds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, Hope’s curiosity will be her undoing. Damn pork rinds.
> 
> Please understand, because Marvel was dumb and created _The Exterminated_ (2018) (and omg what an angst fest _that_ was), it is now canon that teenage Hope does not care for Wade. Poor boy. All he wants is for his boyfriend’s daughter to be nice to him. :c So I rolled that dynamic and some of her grievances into the fic.


	12. Two Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I suddenly disappeared. Apartment hunting is tiring and frustrating and took all my brain power for a couple days.
> 
> Anyway, a very short and pointless happily-ever-after for you all. :P

Hope still has a key to the condo. Nate has absolutely refused to take it back, declaring that she’s welcome any time, that it’s still her home whenever she wants to come by.

It’s sweet of him, Hope thinks fondly, as she unlocks the door and steps through into the entry hallway. But not quite as accurate as it used to be.

“Anyone home?” she calls brightly.

“Hope!” she hears Ellie squeal, and then she comes running, bouncing ponytail and big grin and cute purple pajamas with some cutesy cartoon character all over them.

“Hi, Ellie,” Hope says with a smile as her hand is grabbed and she’s tugged down the hall. She frees herself so she can set her bag on the kitchen counter and stash her jacket and shoes in the coat closet. Then she takes a moment to glance around the condo, which feels amazingly more lived in than it has since she was little. There’s the pristine leather couch of her teenage years, but now there’s another battered one stuffed into the living room and a new flatscreen TV, the kind her dad always refused to buy until Wade whined for two weeks nonstop. Homework and action figures and LEGOs litter her dad’s glass-topped coffee table. There’s a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and a number of very aggressive posted signs reminding everyone to “CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT”.

She never thought she’d be so okay with how different it’s become.

“Daddy and Nate are running late,” Ellie reports. “They said we can watch as many movies as we want and eat anything we want,” she adds glibly.

Wade appears in the doorway of the master bedroom in only a pair of boxers. Hope grimaces and quickly glances away.

“We said whatever movies you want _before bedtime_. Don’t let her fool you, Hope.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get her to bed reasonably on time,” she says. “Now go put on clothes before I throw something at you.”

“I got a new LEGO kit!” Ellie exclaims, grabbing Hope’s hand again and tugging her toward the couches. “Wanna see?”

“Sure. And what movie do you want to watch?” Hope asks as she lets herself be pulled along. She sits down on her dad’s firm and ridiculously expensive couch; Ellie plops down on Wade’s dark blue, well-used, squishy thrift store junker. At least her dad had insisted on getting the thing cleaned when Wade had moved in.

She sits back and listens as Ellie shows off the superhero vehicle she’s building, then transitions to start listing the pros and cons of various movies they could watch. This kid definitely inherited how to talk from her dad, Hope thinks, grinning quietly to herself. The monologue seems to be favoring one of the Star Wars movies, although Ellie hasn’t entirely ruled out other Disney+ options either. Hope just hopes she can steer Ellie away from anything with a strong romance plot. Love stories of princess-finds-her-prince really aren’t her style.

Her dad comes out of the master bedroom and pads over their way, looking dressed down in a snug black t-shirt with red lettering and well-fitted, his latest prosthetic arm--an all-over metallic silver--on display, trendy jeans, black socks on his feet. Hope sighs as she realizes he’s wearing yet another one of the amputee joke t-shirts that Wade takes endless glee in buying for him. This one says, _Are you staring at me because I’m an amputee or because I’m sexy?_

“Thanks for coming over,” he says with a smile, sinking down on the couch next to her. “I appreciate you doing this babysitting gig for us.”

“I’m not a baby,” Ellie mutters rebelliously from the other side of the coffee table.

“Sorry. Tween-sitting,” Nate amends. Ellie looks slightly mollified.

“No problem,” Hope says. “I was thinking we’d make popcorn and watch a movie, and then Ellie’ll go to bed. You go do your plan.”

Her dad’s eyes flick to Ellie and then back to her. He clears his throat. “You sure you’re okay with the, uh, thing?” he asks, sounding apprehensive. Hope snorts.

“Seriously, Dad? You’ve been disgustingly cute together for years, even when I couldn’t stand Wade for more than five minutes at a time and thought you’d lost your mind.” Ellie is looking intensely interested in whatever she _knows_ she’s not getting the full story on. “Even when you let him move his junky furniture in here.”

“There’s no reason for one of us to be more entitled to pick the furniture than the other,” her dad protests, the same thing he’s said dozens of other times.

“And then you suggested he should be an opinionated shit disturber _legally_.” Hope’s absolutely sure her dad had pulled a few strings behind the scenes to make that happen.

“The job title is community activist, but yes.”

“And you didn’t even get mad that time he almost set the kitchen on fire.”

“Actually, I was furious, but we got through it.”

“My point is, I don’t understand what you two have, but I don’t have to understand it to know it’s there. You both seem really happy, and that’s what’s important.”

He lets out a relieved sigh. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Anyway, I knew I was doomed as soon as you guys moved Ellie into my old bedroom,” Hope says with dry amusement. Then laughs as her dad makes a face at her.

“ _Nathan Summers, you cleanfreak, where is my favorite shirt_ wait nevermind I found it!” is yelled from the master bedroom.

Nate rolls his eyes. Seconds later, Wade emerges, wearing a pair of ragged jeans and smoothing down a long-sleeve tee that says _That’s what. --She_ across the front. Hope sighs deeply. She must be losing her mind to be giving her dad her blessing on this.

A few minutes later, their two dads are finally out of the apartment, Wade looking a step above thrift store rejects and her dad neatly styled. The instant the door closes, Ellie is plopping down on the couch next to her, a gleam in her eye.

“You’re going to tell me what that was about, or we’re going to watch every kissing scene in every Disney+ princess movie I can find.”

Hope winces, but she’s also kind of impressed. That’s her dad’s cold-blooded directness and Wade’s ability to pinpoint the most outlandish yet effective threat, all combined in one adorable package.

“That’s fighting dirty,” she complains, picking up one of the action figures off the coffee table and straightening its little arms.

“I don’t care. Tell me,” Ellie insists, leaning forward expectantly.

Hope sighs and sets down the figure. “Okay, but if my dad doesn’t actually follow through on asking tonight, promise me you won’t tell your dad.”

Ellie quickly nods. “Okay, I promise, tell me!”

Hope suddenly can’t stop herself from grinning. “I think we’re going to be official, legal step-sisters soon,” she says. Waits for Ellie to figure it out. And then laughs happily when she squeals loud enough to probably be heard two floors down and flings herself at Hope to hug her.

She’s glad that, even when she’d expected the worst, she’d given Wade a chance. It’s turned out so much better than she’d ever thought possible. For all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well .... I finished it. Not quite sure what I think of the whole thing. ~~Because I'm the first to admit it's a silly romance novel without a really large conflict in the plot. But on the other hand ... I FINISHED IT! Longest thing I ever wrote!~~ If you enjoyed it, could you please leave a little comment and let me know? (Even if it's a long time after I posted it--I'm totally happy about comments on well-aged fic.)


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